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^ambersiitp of i^ortf) Carolina 

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in 2012 with funding from 

University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 



Illustrated Magazine 

For Young Folks 



Part I., November, 1895, to April, 18 



Copyright, 1896, by The Century Co. 

The De Vinne Press. 

Ubrary, (J n j v ^ 
North Carolina 




Six Months — November, 1895, to April, 1896. 



About Flying-Machines. (Illustrated) Tudor Jenks 443 

April Fool, The. Verse. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Tudor Jcnks 495 

Arabic Numerals, The. Verse. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall Wheelan). .Julia M. Colton 513 

Archer, The. Poem. (Illustrated by George Varian) Ruth C. Loverin 212 

Baseball in Africa. Picture, drawn by Peter Newell 86 

Bear Story, A. Pictures, drawn by E. W. Kemble 312 

Betty Leicester's English Christmas. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) .... Sarah Orne Jewett. . 108, 225, 313 

Bombshell; an Artillery Dog. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Lieut. John C. W. Brooks . . 166 

Boy who Borrowed Trouble, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author). .Frederick B. Opper 417 

By Hook or By Crook. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Virginia Woodward Cloud. . 214 

Caedmon, The Christmas Song of. Poem. (Illustrated by F. M. Du Mond) Bertha E. Bush 145 

Christmas Eve Thought, A. Verse Harriet Brewer Sterling. . . 169 

Christmas in the Middle Ages. Picture, drawn by F. M. Du Mond 188 

'Christmas Party, At the. Picture, drawn by E. H. Blashfield 223 

Christmas Song of Caedmon, The. Poem. (Illustrated by F. M. Du Mond) Bertha E. Bush 145 

Christmas White Elephant, A. (Illustrated by George Varian) IV. A. Wilson 112, 184 

Clever Little Builder, A. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) Blanche L. Macdonell 75 

Cloudland. Poem John Vance Cheney 464 

Dancing Bear, The. Picture, drawn by H. N. Walcott 46 

" Dare," A. (Illustrated by C. M. Relyea) Antoinette Go/ay 499 

Down Durley Lane. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Virginia Woodward Cloud . . 20 

Dream in February, A. Verse. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Margaret Johnson 300 

Dream March of the Children. Poem. (Illustrated by George Varian). James Whilcomb Riley 128 

Estelle's Astronomy. Verse Delia Hart Stone 403 

Fairy Godmother, The. Prize Puzzle. (Illustrated) 432 

Famous French Painter, A. (Illustrated) Arthur Hoeber 3 

Fire Fancies. Poem. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall Wheelan) Guy Welmore Carryl 369 

Flying-machines, About. (Illustrated) Tudor Jenks 443 

Gerome. (" A Famous French Painter.") (Illustrated) Arthur Hoeber 3 

Gibson Boy, The. (Illustrated) Christine Terhune Jlerrick . . 268 

Goodly Sword, The. (Illustrated by C. F. W. Mielatz) Mary Stuart Mc Kinney .... 392 

Good Method, A. Verse Anna M. Pratt 222 

*" Grasshoppers' Ball. Picture, drawn by W. Taber 77 

o Happy Holiday of Master Merrivein, The. Verse. (Illustrated by > 

1 R R R' M ( * tr g tnm Woodward Cloud . . 130 

fj> Hemmed In with the Chief. (Illustrated by F. H. Lungren) Frank Welles Calkins 290 

— Her Name. Verse Max Guthrie 51 



Holly and the Railroad Signals. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Arthur Hale 320 

How a Street-car Came in a Stocking. (Illustrated by C. M. Relyea). .Harriet Allen. 101 

How Denise and "Ned Toodles" Became Acquainted. (Illustrated by 1 

R R R' rl 1 ( Gabriclle E. Jackson 244 

How Jack Came to Jamestown. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) . . .Annie E. Tynan 179 

How the Flag was Saved. (Illustrated) Noah Brooks 294 

How the Whale Looked Pleasant. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) . .Charles Frederick Holder. .. . 496 

In the Early Winter Days. Picture, drawn by Louis Rhead 153 

In the Heart of Winter. Picture, drawn by Mary R. Bennett 391 

Into Port. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Lieut. John M. Ellicotl. . . , 370 

In Top Time. Verse. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall Wheelan) Henry Reeves 518 

It is the Unexpected that Happens. Pictures, drawn by E. W. Kemble 312 

John Henry Jones. Verse. (Illustrated by C- M. Relyea) IV. C. McClelland 120 

Johnny's Observations on Christmas Eve. Verse. (Illustrated by ) 

,„ ~, , > Charles L. Benjamin . . 204 

Launching a Great Vessel. (Illustrated by F. Cresson Schell) Franklin Matthews 35 

Letters to Young Friends. (Illustrated) Robert Louis Stevenson 91 


Lieutenant Harry. (Illustrated by W. H. Shelton) Thomas Ed-win Turner 466 

Life-saving Station, The Story of a. (Illustrated by M. J. Burns) Teresa A. Brown 248 

Little Bob Kimball. Verse Agnes Lee 455 

Little Carletons Have Their Say, The. (Illustrated by A. J. Keller) . .Constance Cary Harrison . . . 147 

Little Hero of Peru, A. (Illustrated by F. H. Lungren and T. Moran) . . Charles F. Lummis 385 

Little Maid's Reply, The. Verse. (Illustrated by George Varian) Charles Lee 267 

Little Mr. By-and-By. Verse Clinton Scollai-d 333 

Little Tommy's Monday Morning. Verse. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) . . Tudor Jenks 506 

Magic Turquoise, The. (Illustrated by the Author) F. H. Lungren 216 

March Winds. Verse. (Illustrated by W. H. McCullough) Annie Willis McCullough . . 520 

Mardie's Experience. (Illustrated by Howard C. Christy) Kate Dickinson Sweetser ... 473 

Marion's Adventures, Report Concerning 257 

Mathematical Maiden, A. Verse. (Illustrated) May Harding Rogers 327 

Monday in Kitten-land. Picture, drawn by David Ericson 289 

Moose Hunt, Their First. (Illustrated by the Author) Tappan Adney 376 

Mr. Snowbird Spends Christmas Day with Br'er Rabbit. Pictures, 1 

drawn by F. S. Church \ ' 

New Year's Meeting, A. Verse. (Illustrated by C T. Hill) Tudor Jenks 255 

Nobody Man, The. Verse Winthrop Packard 391 

Nursery Song, A. Verse Laura E. Richards 232 

Olympian Games, The. (Illustrated by A. Castaigne) G. T. Ferris 508 

On Parade. (Illustrated by, George Varian) Kate Stephens 416 

Our Secret Society. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) George Parsons Lathrop .... 140 

Owney, the Post-office Dog. (Illustrated from photographs) Helen E. Greig 162 

Peanut Man, That Little. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Eva P. Brown 170 

Pictures 19, 46, 77, 86, 119, 153, 162, 171, 188, 223, 224, 289, 312, 391, 525 

Pop-corn People. Verse. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) Pearl Rivers 342 

Port, Coming Into. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Lieut. John M. Ellicott 370 

Portrait of the Artist's Son. By George De Forest Brush 224 

Postal-card Race Around the World, A. (Illustrated) Christopher Valentine 238 

Princeton; a Modern Puss in Boots. (Illustrated by C. M. Relyea). . . .Minnie B. Sheldon 41 

Prize Cup, The. (Illustrated by C. M. Relyea) J. T. Trcnobridge 64 

153. 2 °5> 2 73> 358, 480 

Puzzled. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Carolyn Wells 398 

Puzzling Example, A. Verse Virginia Sarah Benjamin . . . 488 

Quadrupeds of North America. (Illustrated). Concluded 

The Lowest of Our Quadrupeds W. T. Hornaday 424 

Railroad Signals, Holly and the. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Arthur Hale 320 

Reading the Book of Fate. (Illustrated by F. H. Lungren) Louise Willis Snead 33 

Rhyme of the Two Little Browns, The. Verse. (Illustrated by i „,.,,„ 

R. B. Birch) \ ary Ellzabeth Stone 355 



Rhymes of the States. Verse. (Illustrated by Harry Fenn) Garrett Kewkirk 

Wyoming 82 

Colorado 83 

Utah 346 

Nevada 347 

Oregon 43° 

California 431 

Washington 522 

Idaho 523 

Riches Have Wings. (Illustrated by C. M. Relyea) Fanny L. Brent 14 

Scissors, The. Verse. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall Wheelan) Laura E. Richards 456 

Secret Society, Our. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) George Parsons Lathrop .... 140 

Sindbad, Smith and Co. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Albert Stearns. . 196, 281, 418, 489 

Snowflakes. Poem Charles L. Benjamin 415 

Stalled at Bear Run. (Illustrated by H. Sandham) Thomas Holmes 502 

Startling Announcement, A. Picture, drawn by W. Taber 162 

Stevenson's Letters to Young Friends. (Illustrated) Robert Louis Stevenson 91, 189, 304 

Stopped ! Pictures, drawn by E. W. Kemble 19 

Story of a Life-saving Station, The. (Illustrated by M. J. Burns) Teresa A. Brown 248 

Story of the Year, The. Picture, drawn by Mary Yandes Robinson . 119 

Street-car, and How it Came in a Stocking, A. (Illustrated by C. M. ) 

R , . > Harriet Allen ... 101 

Swordmaker's Son, The. (Illustrated by George Varian) William O. Stoddard 26 


Sword, The Goodly. (Illustrated by C. F. W. Mielatz) Mary Stuart McKinney .... 392 

Tardy Santa Claus, The. Verse. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Kate D. H'iggin 255 

Teddy and Carrots. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) James Otis 47 

x 3 6 > 239. 3 2 8, 399. 457 

That Little Peanut Man. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Eva P. Brown 170 

Their First Moose Hunt. (Illustrated by the Author) Tappan Adney 376 

"The Moon Must Love Me Very Much." Verse. (Illustrated by the 1 

Author) J Frederick B. Opper 518 

Those Clever Japs. Verse. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall Wheelan) . . Mary Barllett Smith 2S0 

Three Dogs. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake and from photographs) Laurence Hutton 59 

Toll-gate, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Rudolph F. Banner 152 

Top Time, In. Verse. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall Wheelan) Henry Reeves 518 

Tower Playmates, The. Poem. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Anna Robeson Brown 297 

Trap-door Spider, The. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) Helen Harcourt 73 

Two Little Browns, The Rhyme of the. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Mary Elizabeth Stone 355 

Two Maidens. Verse Gertrude Morton Cannon . . . 455 

Untutored Giraffe, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Herford 318 

Vagaries of Queen Peggy, The. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) . . . .Emma A. Opper 52 

Week-days in Dolly's House. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) John Bennett 80 

Whale, and How He Looked Pleasant, The. (Illustrated by Meredith 1 „,,_,., 

», . , • Charles Frederick Holder . . . 496 

Nugent) ) n * 

What Lydia Saw. (Illustrated by T. Moran and George Varian) Herbert H. Smith 404 

When the Leaves are Gone. (Illustrated) Edith M. Thomas 302 

When the New Year Comes. Poem Guy Wetmore Carryl 203 

Wishes. Verse. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Florence E. Pratt 332 

Wonderful Trick, A. Verse. (Illustrated by C. M. Relyea) Charles L. Benjamin 465 

Yamoud. (Illustrated by George Varian) Henry Willard French 54 


" Portrait of a Child," by Cecilia Beaux, facing Title-page of Volume — " Ho, for the Christmas Tree ! " by 
George Varian, page 90 — "Christmas Lights Do Fade Away," by Frederick Dielman, page 178 — "Yes, sir; to 
let you in," by George Varian, page 266 — "The Saraband," after the painting by F. Roybet, page 354 — "As 
Ulvig Neared the Train He was Hailed by the Conductor," by H. Sandham, page 442. 



Jack-in-the-Pulpit. (Illustrated. ) 

Introduction — Educated Oysters — Licorice- Water — A New Noise (illustrated) — Reading by Letter — 
Quite a Spell — -American Tea-growing — Adopting a Kitten (illustrated), 78; Introduction — That Cork Question 
— A Clever Horse — That Prize Competition, 256; Marion's Adventures, 257. 

For Very Little Folk. (Illustrated.) 

How the Slide was Spoiled B. IV. 344 

Eleven Humpty Dumptys Bessie Hill 345 

Paper-doll Poems Polly King 520 

The Letter-box. (Illustrated) 84, 172, 348, 436, 524 

The Riddle-box. (Illustrated) 87, 175, 263, 351, 439, 527 

Editorial Notes 172, 348, 436. 






Vol. XXIII. 

NOVEMBER, 1895. 

No. 1. 


By Arthur Hoeber. 

Away back in the early part of this century, 
before it had finished its first quarter — in short, 
in 1824, — a little French boy baby was born, 
who was destined to make a stir in the world 
and to have considerable influence over a great 
many American lads later on in his life. The 
town in which he first saw the light was Vesoul, 
situated in the northeastern part of France in a 
depariement — or, as we should call it, a county 
— known as Haute-Saone. 

His parents were people in very moderate 
circumstances, the father being a goldsmith by 
the name of Gerome, and the little boy was 
christened Jean-Leon. As the child grew up 
he developed into a bright, quick, active boy; 
and at no little sacrifice, for money was not 
plenty in his home, he was sent to a good 
school and afterward to college, from which he 
graduated at the age of sixteen years. With no 
social position and without friends in high places 
to help him, this boy nevertheless came to be one 
of the most famous men of his time, and to-day 
he is honored, famous, prosperous, and rich. 
He has more medals and decorations than he 
could ever conveniently wear, and wherever 
people talk about pictures his name is known 
as that of one of the greatest of modern artists. 

Copyright, 1895, by The Cent 

The story of his life is inspiring, as showing 
what a boy may accomplish by pegging away 
seriously with one object ever in view. I should 
like to tell how Jean-Leon Gerome conquered 
all obstacles and, not content with becoming 
one of the leading painters of France and of 
the world, began when nearly sixty to turn his 
attention to sculpture. 

Of all his studies, both at school and at col- 
lege, there was no branch that was half so 
attractive to the young Gerome as drawing, 
and in this the boy made such remarkable 
progress as soon to be quite ahead of all his 
teachers. His father, who used to make each 
year a trip to Paris, to receive orders and 
to deliver his jeweler's work, on one occasion 
brought back a box of oil colors and an 
original picture by Decamps, one of the fa- 
mous artists of his day. To the boy, the pic- 
ture was an inspiration, and the paint-box an 
unmixed joy and delight. He copied the pic- 
ture by Decamps, to the great admiration of 
his family and friends, and he felt that a new 
life was opened to him. There had come to 
live at the little town of Vesoul a gentleman 
who was on intimate terms with people in the 
great art-world of Paris. He saw this early 

URV Co. All rights reserved. 


work, and, going to the father of our young 
lad, advised that the boy be sent to the French 
capital to study. He also gave him a letter to 
Paul Delaroche, the artist, then at the height of 
his fame; and, what was more to the point, this 
same gentleman made a liberal present in 
money to help the boy to pay his expenses. 
This, with what the worth}' goldsmith man- 
aged to spare from his own modest funds, made 
quite a respectable sum, for in France a little 
money may be made to go a long way. 

So Gerome bade good-by to his people, and 
journeyed to Paris by slow stage-coach, rail- 
roads not as yet having been established. He 
entered Delaroche's painting-school, then, per- 
haps, the best in all France. Here his master 
became greatly interested in the boy, while the 
youth was equally attracted to the teacher. 
Before long the teacher had his promising 
young pupil drawing outlines for him on his 
great picture, now in the gallerv of Versailles, 
" Napoleon Crossing the Alps." 

Unhappily, the school-boys of those days 
took great delight in the stupid practice of 
hazing — a custom that is as unfair and unmanly 
as it is foolish. New pupils were made un- 
comfortable and even utterly miserable. Their 
studies were interfered with, their valuable time 
was wasted, though many of them were poor 
and could ill afford to lose it. In short, so 
much disorder and rioting took place in the 
class-rooms that finally a freshman lost his life 
through this miserable horse-play. Then De- 
laroche, who had long been indignant at the 
disorders of the pupils in his studio, finally con- 
cluded to close it. While all this was taking 
place, Gerome had been on a visit to his family 
in his native town; and, when he returned, his 
master, who had planned a trip to Italy, ad- 
vised him to continue his studies with an- 
other distinguished Frenchman, named Drol- 
ling. The resolute young man, however, was 
not to be thus cast off, for he had a great 
admiration for his master. 

" No," he said ; " as you are going to Rome, 
I shall go with you, if you will allow me ; if not, 
then I shall follow you." 

To this bold speech the master could only 
reply that the pupil was welcome to come, and 
the two departed together. A year was spent 

in Italy, Gerome painting landscapes, rather 
than working after the old masters ; and here his 
health, which had been anything but good, was 
greatly improved, so that he returned to Paris 
well and strong, and ready for any amount of 
work. The family was very desirous that the 
boy should compete for the annual prize of 
Rome, an account of which will be of interest. 

The French nation has for many years 
owned a handsome palace in the Eternal City, 
as Rome is frequently called. This is known 
as the Villa de' Medici. It is a beautiful build- 
ing, standing in the middle of a garden filled 
with statuary and fine old trees, commanding a 
view of the famous old city, and fitted up with 
superb furniture, tapestries, and pictures, the 
remains of the former greatness of the once 
powerful Medici family, who for so many 
years were high in the political affairs of Italy. 
Here each year are sent four young French- 
men — a painter, a sculptor, an architect, and 
a carver of precious stones. These lads are 
chosen by a competition held at the School of 
Fine Arts in Paris every spring. The exami- 
nations are very searching, and the successful 
candidates are greatly envied, as well they may 
be, for, having won their honors, they are 
housed, fed, and provided with a studio and 
an ample sum of money to pay their expenses 
for four years — all by the French government. 

So it will be seen that it is no small honor to 
have passed successfully through the ordeal ; 
for not only is the opportunity for the delight- 
ful life under such splendid conditions to be de- 
sired, but the youth who gains the distinction of 
being the prize-winner is forevermore a marked 
man. His work is watched for, his future pro- 
gress is noted, and his career may be said to be 
definitely made. The conditions under which 
the examinations are made are very strict. 
Preliminary trials take place early in the sea- 
son. All who desire to enter inscribe their 
names at the Government School. Of course, 
only French lads may try. For the painters, a 
subject is given out, — perhaps some incident 
from the Bible, or an episode from a mythological 
story, — and sketches are made by the students. 
Twenty or thirty of the most promising sketches 
are selected, and the young men, thus chosen, 
are notified. These lads then make drawings in 


In.illilllllll IIIIHlillllllllll 

! - vM 


charcoal of the subject. Another selection is 
made, and those chosen then make paintings. 
This time ten canvases are selected, and their 
authors go, as they say in French, en loge, which 
means that each man of the ten enters a small 
studio, where are an easel and materials for 
work, and he is allowed such models as are 
necessary to complete his picture. His first 
sketch of the subject given out is handed to him, 
and from this he must make a painting about 
three feet by four in size. He is not allowed 
to make any material changes in his composi- 
tion, but must keep very closely to his original 
design. Outside his door sits an employee of the 
school, known as a " guardian," whose business 
it is to see that the student receives no help ; 
nor may he leave the building, save under 
charge of this sentinel, who is watchful and 
keen, and not to be trifled with. Three weeks 
are allowed in which to complete the work. 
Then the ten canvases are placed in frames. 
The works are the same size every year, and the 
old frames do duty over and over again. 

Now is an anxious period while a jury com- 
posed of distinguished artists deliberate on the 
merits of the works to determine the order of 
their excellence. Finally, a day comes when 
all is arranged. The ten pictures are placed in 
a gallery of the school, and each is numbered ; 
the doors are opened, and the anxious crowd 
of students rushes in to learn the decision. 

Y^u may be sure that the happy Number One 
is a hero, and that he is carried around the 
Latin Quarter on the shoulders of his compan- 
ions. The strain of the past few months is over, 
and we may forgive him if he gives way to a 
lot of boisterous nonsense for a few hours. To 
Number Two there is some consolation for so 
narrowly missing the great end he has aimed for 
— a sort of " consolation prize " being awarded 
to him, in the shape of a sum of money that 
enables him to travel for a year. Besides, he 
will compete the next year, and it frequently 
happens that the second man one season is the 
successful competitor of the year following. 

The winning picture is hung permanently in 
the school, and the happy man goes to Rome. 
Each year he must send home evidences of his 
application and progress, that the State may 
know he is improving his time. 


Now, though all this would seem a splendid 
test of the ability of a young man, it not infre- 
quently happens that lads of great talent fail to 
get this coveted prize, and that either by tem- 
perament, or nervousness, or inability to stand 
the strain, they do not quite come up to the re- 
quirements of the judges. So it happened with 
our young Gerome. Though repeatedly re- 
warded for his drawings, when it came to the 
test he was judged inferior to his rival, Alexandre 
Cabanel, who carried off the palm. But though 
beaten in the contest Gerome did not sit down 
and sulk. He was made of sterner stuff and 
he gave evidence 
of the courage, pa- 
tience, and applica- 
tion that have stood 
him in such good 
stead all through 
his life, and car- 
ried him to such 
splendid fame. He 
said to himself, " It 
is evident that I 
must learn to draw 
and paint the nude 
figure " ; so he set 
himself to the task 

with the Utmost in- a figure from gerome's painting 


uustry, and soon Q f boussod valadon & co. 



produced a picture of young Greeks that won 
high praise from all quarters. For this work 
he received a medal of the third class, a high 
honor for a youth but twenty-three years of 
age. From this he went on to a number of 
classical subjects, which, though somewhat dry 
and hard in painting, were always extremely 
interesting in the story they told. 

And now there came an important epoch in 
Gerome's life, for in 1855 he went to the East, 
traveling through Egypt and the Holy Land. 
Here he was deeply impressed by all he saw, 
and here he found a wealth of sympathetic sub- 
jects which inspired many of his paintings in 
after years. 

The curious costumes and customs of the 
Orientals, the attractive architecture of mosques, 
temples, and dwellings, the brilliancy of color- 
ing, and the vivid contrasts of light and shade, 
appealed with great force to the young painter. 
He made many pictures of the people, at work, 
at their amusements, at prayer, in the fields, or 
on the backs of their faithful and much-loved 
horses. Each canvas bore the marks of great 
care, loving application, and faithful attention 
to every detail, always characteristic of this 
master. Honors began to come upon him thick 
and fast. In 1848 he received another medal 
at the exhibition, and at the Universal Exposi- 
tion of 1855 not only did he get still a third of 
these medals, but he was created a Knight of 
the Legion of Honor, that much coveted dis- 
tinction for which all Frenchmen strive. When 
this honor came to him, Gerome had but just 
passed the age of thirty. 

Gerome has painted so many important pic- 
tures having a world-wide reputation, that it is 
impossible to go into many particulars about 
them in the present article. The illustration of 
" Napoleon before the Sphinx " will, however, 
give some idea of his remarkable powers of in- 
vention, and his fertility of ideas. The inci- 
dent was suggested by the Egyptian campaign 
of the great Emperor. On the vast plains of 
the desert, rising solemnly up from the burning 
sands, stands the great mysterious stone figure, 
the origin or the meaning of which no man has 
yet been able to explain. In the distance we 
see the legions of the French army, while on 
his horse, calmly, and with speculative eye, sits 

the marvel of his age. The little man, humble 
of birth, without influence or money, rising by 
the force of circumstances and his own strong 
will and character to the mightiest position 
among the rulers of the earth, gazes steadfastly 
at the storm-beaten, time-worn monument of 
past ages. The contrast is full of suggestive- 

Or let us take his " Thirst." What wonder- 
ful strength is here ! On the hot, shimmering, 
sun-dried sands crouches the mighty King of 
Beasts, a very baby in his weakness, overcome 
by the desire to wet his parched tongue, and 
panting for a drop of water. What awful lone- 
liness ! What fearful solitude, and what a 
dreary waste ! 

It were more pleasant to turn to the glimpse 
he gives us of the great oriental city whose 
housetops, minarets, and spires gleam under the 
brilliant Eastern sky, where the pious Mus- 
sulman calls the faithful to prayers. Here may 
be noted the artist's wonderful powers of ob- 
servation, and the extraordinary finish, nothing, 
apparently, escaping his attention. So, too, in 
the " Pacha's Runners," where the reproduc- 
tion does not, of course, give an idea of the 
color, though Gerome's coloring is not always 
fine. His best skill appears in drawing and in 
the arrangement of his compositions. In the 
" Bull-Fighter " we find that the artist is quite 
as much at home in Spanish scenes as in clas- 
sical, oriental, or modern French life. He en- 
ters into the brutality of the bull-ring, and, 
showing us the coarse picadors and the excited 
audience, brings the incident before us very 
vividly. In short, no matter what he under- 
takes, he prepares himself for the task with 
much earnestness and great deliberation. He 
makes careful studies, he looks well into his 
subjects, and he takes no end of pains. Pic- 
tures do not come of themselves, nor are they 
executed without almost endless trouble. Ar- 
tists are generally supposed by thoughtless peo- 
ple to be more or less inspired, and to dash off 
masterpieces at will ; but the truth is, a picture 
that has any claim to live and to deserve high 
appreciation is undertaken with as much fore- 
thought as the building of a ship. First the pain- 
ter makes a sketch, searching out, in a general 
way, the best method of putting his idea on 

'the call to prayer." from the painting by ger6me. by permission of boussod VALADON & CO. 




!U--j u c-^„e. 


canvas ; then, after many changes and altera- 
tions, studies are made of the principal figures, 
of the draperies, and of the accessories. Now 
the scheme of color must be arranged, and 
finally comes the painting, and the painstaking 
completion of all the parts. 

And so it was that Gerome, like other great 
men, went carefully to work, achieving great 
success, advancing steadily year by year, his 
fame growing, and his honors multiplying. He 
had already, in the year 1858, been made one 
of the professors at the National School of 
Fine Arts, where he soon began to have a 
strong influence on the young students of the 
day, turning out many able pupils who have 
since become famous. Among these there 
have been a number of Americans, many of 
whom are prominent now ; and not a few have 
themselves received in their turn medals and 
honors. There are some who wear even the 
red ribbon of the Legion of Honor. In 1867, 
at the Universal Exposition at Paris, Gerome 
was promoted to be an officer of the Legion 
of Honor, and he also received the Grand 
Medal of Honor. This last distinction was re- 
peated in 1874. Surely we might think that 
his ambition was satisfied, and that he might 
thereafter rest quietly, painting when the spirit 
moved him, and spending his declining years 
in the happy contemplation of a successful 
career. He was now fifty years of age, rich 
in worldly possessions, the owner of a hand- 
some house in the fashionable part of Paris, 
and of a lovely summer home and a chateau 
on the river Seine, at a charming little town 

called Bougival. Everything that goes to 
make life agreeable was his, and yet — it was 
not Gerome's way to 

" Sit idly down and say, 
The night hath come : it is no longer day " ; 

for he felt with the poet 

"The night hath not yet come; we are not quite 
Cut off from labor by the failing light. 
Something remains for us to do or dare ; 
Even the oldest tree some fruit may bear: 
For age is opportunity no less 
Than youth itself, though in another dress." 

The great energy of the master could not be 
bottled up, and, like Alexander of old, he sighed 
for a new world to conquer, so he went to work 
quietly in his studio to study in clay forms and 
masses that he had heretofore represented in 
color. In short, he dropped his palette and 
brushes, and gave all his attention to sculpture. 
How well he succeeded is a matter of history; 
for, at the Universal Exposition of 1878, he re- 
ceived a medal for sculpture and the Grand 
Medal of Honor. We have seen how G6rome 
has been appreciated in his own country; but 
it would take much space to tell in what high 
esteem he is held by other nations. He is an 
Honorary Member of the Royal Academies of 
London, Rome, Madrid, Brussels, Antwerp, 
Copenhagen, Rio de Janeiro, and many other 
cities; and monarchs have sent him many decora- 
tions. The old Emperor William of Germany- 
made him an officer of the Order of the Red 
Eagle ; King Leopold of Belgium created him 
a Knight of the Order of Leopold; William III. 
of the Netherlands appointed him a Knight of 




"the pacha's rlnners.' 




the Golden Lion and an officer of the Crown of bears with much modesty, like the big man 

Oak; and Victor Emmanuel made him a knight that he is. His life has been, and is, a busy 

of an Italian order. one, and he has little time to bother about 

All these honors and many more Gerome much but his art, in his efforts continually to 

i895- : 

In a letter to a friend he 


improve himself, 
once wrote : 

We are having days so gloomy that . . . it is almost 
impossible to work. Nevertheless I keep at it desper- 
ately, and expect to fight on to my last breath. 

In another letter he says : 

I am at work early every morning, and only leave my 
studio when day has fled, and this since my youth. You 
see, I have been hammering on my anvil a long time. It 
is one of the examples I try to set my pupils, that of 
being an ardent and indefatigable worker every day and 
under all circumstances. 

And this from a man of seventy-one years! 
Truly a splendid example is offered by his cour- 
age and wonderful zeal. 

In person Monsieur Gerome is a wiry, me 

Arts, on the Rue Bonaparte. His presence is 
eagerly awaited, and his arrival is the signal for 
absolute silence. On his entrance and after his 
hat and coat have been taken by one of the 
scholars, without loss of time he at once goes at 
the work of criticism, in which he is a model of 
brevity and conciseness. His unerring eye at 
once detects the faults and wrong tendencies of 
each student, and nothing whatsoever escapes 
him. A pupil may deceive himself, but not the 
master. Kindly advice to the serious, sting- 
ing rebukes to triflers, pleasant encouragement 
to hard workers, and useful counsel to progres- 
sive men — such are the results of his visits. 
He is very liberal in his ideas, and gladly wel- 

dium-sized man, with a fine presence, and very comes any style of work so long as it is healthy, 
soldier-like in his erect carriage. His face is honest, and sincere. He takes great pride in 
strong and full of character ; his snapping eyes the efforts of the pupils under him, and does 
are searching and stern, and his fine head of not hesitate to climb many pairs of stairs to the 
gray hair and military mustache give him quite most humble little studio, to correct and advise 
the appearance of a cavalry officer. Courteous some poor, struggling chap at work on a pic- 
manners, great affability, and a most distin- ture, and Gerome will sit and chat with him and 

guished air, make him an ideal type of gentle- 
man. At a most absurdly early hour, when 
only milkmen, bakers, and laborers are stirring, 
he may be seen in the Bois de Boulogne, or 

give him the benefit of his years of experience. 
His kindness and consideration to Americans in 
his studio are proverbial. 

Such has been the career of Gerome, and 

on the Champs Elysees, astride of a handsome thus has he, by hard work and by keeping 

horse, taking his morning exercise ; but long one purpose in view, achieved great results, 

before the gay world of Paris is idling over What he has done any lad may aspire to do. 

its morning cup of coffee, the artist has re- Not to all will come his success, of course ; but 

turned and is busily engaged before his easel, to the youth entering on his life-work nothing 

or with his modeling-tools. should seem too great for which to strive. The 

Twice each week he gives his forenoon to future is in his own hands if he will but apply 

his pupils at the Government School of Fine himself steadily and honestly to his task. 

fes&A^ MSBl^' ; " 


By Fanny L. Brent. 

Alice Creighton sat on the back door- 
step, shelling corn for her geese. She was a 
round, rosy girl, just sixteen, and looked thor- 
oughly in harmony with the bright afternoon. 
When she finished shelling the corn, she leaned 
back and looked about her with a long sigh of 
content. She was a beauty-loving girl, wise 
enough to see the beauty in the common things 
about her ; and so, as she sat in the doorway, 
she appropriated to herself all the fairness of 
the homely scene. It was late in October- 
The long slant rays of the sun glorified the 
red and gold of the maple-trees, and made 
the fallen leaves in the grass look like precious 
stones on a bed of green velvet. The creeper 
that covered the back of the house glowed 
crimson as the sunlight touched it, and it 
brought out glints of gold in Alice's tumbled 
brown hair, and touched Mother Creighton's 
pale face lovingly, as she sat in her place at 
the window. It shone impartially, too, on the 
geese, each one a gray and white counterpart 
of all the other eleven; each standing on one 
leg, half asleep in the pleasant warmth, near 
the red barn. 

When, after a long look at the rich colors 
about her, Alice's eyes rested again on the 
geese, they lost their dreamy look, and spar- 

kled merrily. " Only another month ! " she 
said, laughing. " They little know what that 
means to them — do they, mother ? " 

" No, indeed," came the reply from indoors. 
"If they knew, I should expect to see them 
take wing and fly away ! " 

" One month more, benighted geese," said 
Alice, with a fine flourish of the corn-cobs, 
"and you will be sizzling in twelve different 
ovens, while I shall be counting my ill-gotten 
gains — " " Ten times a day," interrupted 
her mother, laughing, " and dancing with im- 
patience for the first of December and the 
drawing-teacher to arrive." 

Mother Creighton was always cheery — she 
had no right to be dreary, she said. If she 
could do nothing to help in the family strug- 
gle, she could at least keep from making it 
harder ; and so she smiled when she suffered, 
and was gay when the pain left her. 

But she would never be able to walk again — 
indeed, it was nearly a year, now, since she had 
left her chair by the window. Father placed 
her there in the morning, and lifted her back 
to her bed at night. Alice had left school at 
the beginning of her mother's illness, two years 
before, and had not gone back. 

Even if she could have been spared at home, 


Alice's father could not afford to keep her at 
the academy, with the added expense of the 
mother's illness. 

The Creightons owned their cozy little home; 
but they had suffered heavy losses, and aside 
from the house and an acre of ground about it, 
owned little else. 

Father worked hard to keep that, and earned 
their simple living. Leaving school did not 
seriously trouble Alice. They had plenty of 
books in the little house, and she and her mo- 
ther could read together as much as they wished. 
But she had one real trouble, which her mother 
and father knew and shared but could not help. 

From the time she had owned her first slate 
and pencil, Alice had made pictures. 

She loved to draw, and she drew well. Her 
mother and a teacher in school had taught her 
all they could, and now she wanted to know 
more. If she could only study, she felt that 
she could create some of the beautiful pictures 
she loved to dream of. 

Early that spring it had been announced that 
a good teacher of drawing would come to the 
academy in the winter, and Alice made up her 
mind to take lessons of him. But how could 
she earn the money ? A family council was 
held and it was decided, after much delibera- 
tion, that Alice should raise geese to sell at 
Thanksgiving. " It is not dry enough here for 
turkeys," her father had said ; " but that pond 
in the back lot will be just the place for geese." 
And so it was decided ; and with much count- 
ing of chickens, or rather goslings, Alice had 
set an old hen on a dozen goose eggs and care- 
fully tended her. 

And when the twelve yellow goslings were 
hatched they claimed a still larger share of her 
care. She gave it ungrudgingly, looking for- 
ward to the time when they would repay her. 

As she fed and tended them she often made 
them serve her as models, and some quaint 
sketches of them decorated the sitting-room. 

Now they were fine fat geese, and Alice sat 
in the door thinking what they would do for her 
in one month more. As she sat there she heard 
a peculiar noise overhead, and, looking up, saw 
a large flock of wild geese flying steadily south- 
ward. Their queer " honk ! honk ! " floated 
down through the quiet afternoon air. 


" Oh ! how I wish that we could spread 
our wings and sail away south, like that ! " 
Alice said reflectively. 

And then to her geese, " You stupid crea- 
tures — why don't you join your fellows and go 
with them to ' seek the plashy brink of reedy 
lake, or marge of river wide,' instead of staying 
here to be roasted? How low they are flying!" 
she added, looking at the wild geese, which 
were now just overhead. Their cries sounded 
more plainly, and she turned in astonishment 
at an answering cry from the barn-yard. There 
was a strange commotion among her geese. " I 
wonder if they recognize some distant relatives," 
she said, laughing; but her laugh gave way to 
consternation as she saw one big fellow spread 
his wings and fly up toward the wild geese. 
Another followed, and another, and Alice 
seemed rooted to the door-step as she tried to 
realize what it meant. " Would they all go ? " 
It seemed so ; for when she sprang up and called 
frantically — making the peculiar call she always 
used at feeding-time, and scattering the corn 
for them — they paid no attention to her, but 
with harsh, strange cries rose toward their new 
acquaintances, and clumsily, but swiftly, joined 
them in the air. 

She stood fixed to the spot, watching the de- 
parting geese as if fascinated, while the chickens 
flocked around her to pick up the scattered 

It had happened so quickly ! Yet she realized 
all it meant : no delightful lessons ; no happy, 
busy winter; only the old humdrum work — all 
her summer's work lost ! A flood of bitter, an- 
gry thoughts rushed over her. She dared not 
turn and meet her mother's eyes — not yet. At 
the thought of her mother, the angry thoughts 
fell back, but the tears came, and that was 
almost as bad. " Quick ! Alice Creighton ! " 
she said to herself, " you must turn round in 
a minute ! Be your mother's own daughter, 
and don't let her see how this hurts ! " 

She watched the flock until it faded from 
sight in the distance, and then turned to her 
mother with a laugh (that was not altogether 
forced, after all, for the humor of the thing 
struck her for a moment), and said : 

" I wonder if they took it for permission ? I 
shall be more careful how I give advice in the 





future. One does n't usually expect to have it 

Her mother looked at her searchingly ; saw 
the struggle she was making to keep from 
breaking down entirely, and said, lightly, " I 
am sure that I never saw advice taken quite 
so promptly. The geese may not have been so 
foolish as you thought them." 

Neither dared to say any more, and Alice 
scarcely looked at her mother as she went 
about her evening work. 

Her father was very much troubled when 
he heard the story. " My poor little lass ! " he 
said. " I have heard of riches taking to them- 
selves wings, and flying away, but I never knew 
the wise old proverb to be quite so literally 

" Now, father," Alice said, trying to laugh, 
"you are disgracing the family; for I plainly 
see tears in your eyes, and you know they 're 
forbidden here." 

She kept a brave face until she was upstairs 
and alone in her room, and then she cried her- 
self to sleep. 

And mother, in her room below, knew it 
though she heard no sound, and her heart 
ached to comfort her brave little girl. 

"Can nothing be done for her, John?" she 

" Nothing," her husband answered, sadly. 
" I would give anything to be able to help her, 
but I can't this winter." 

Mother thought about it far into the night, 
and at last confided to him a plan she had 

She watched Alice narrowly all the week, but 
the girl bravely fought down her discouragement, 
going about her work cheerily, and not throw- 
ing aside her drawing in disappointment, but 
working at it as earnestly as ever. In those 
days the mother wrote a number of letters 
when Alice was out of doors, but said never a 
word about them. Thanksgiving passed, and 
December came, and with it the drawing- 
teacher; but Alice, though she did not join his 
classes, was learning other lessons — lessons be- 
yond his power to teach. 

On Christmas morning, mother's face wore 
an unusually radiant smile, and father went about 
laughing and nodding at mother and trying to 
Vol. XXIII.— 3. 

look mysterious; and Alice's wonder increased; 
but matters reached a climax when she found 
under her plate a square envelope, from which 
fell a thin letter and a little folded slip of blue 

She opened the blue paper — it was a check 
for fifty dollars. 

The note read : " Send your girl to me, and 
I '11 put her in an Art School for the rest of the 
winter, and we '11 see what she 's made of." 
It was signed Joanna Harriman. Miss Joanna 
Harriman was Alice's great-aunt, who lived 
alone in New York, and who had little to do 
with any of her kinsfolk. 

When Alice realized that her mother had 
told Aunt Joanna the story of the geese, and 
asked her help, she fell to hugging mother 
convulsively, and showering her with kisses and 
endearing terms. But at the very height of her 
joy, she suddenly drew back, as if she had for- 
gotten herself, and looked very sober and reso- 
lute, whereat mother laughed gaily at the 
solemn face, and said : 

" Oh, don't say you can't leave father and 
me, for Cousin Sarah is coming up to study 
music at the academy, and she will keep house 
for us for her board. Just be glad, and go to 
the reward you deserve because of your bravery 
when the geese flew away. Everything 's ar- 
ranged, and you will go a day or two after New 

Alice ate her breakfast in a dazed sort of 
way, and all day went about in a delightful 

The whole busy holiday week seemed unreal, 
and then came the reality; but Alice was a very 
homesick, lonely girl when her mother was 
really out of reach. 

Aunt Joanna was so cold and distant, and 
seemed so to regard the whole affair as a matter 
of business, that Alice wondered if she could 
really be dear, cheery, loving little mother's own 
aunt. And then to feel that mother would 
need her — that no one else could care for her 
dear mother quite so well. This was a great 
trouble to Alice. 

The work at the school, too, was very hard, 
and she had much to learn, and to unlearn, and 
no one in all the busy hive seemed to care 
whether she succeeded or failed. But Alice was 



proud and brave, and, after all, what a pleasure 
it was to know that she learned something ev- 
ery day and was advancing in the art she loved ! 
And by and by, when the first strangeness wore 
off, and she made new friends, how the days 
did fly ! 

When she went home in April, she was a very 
happy girl, although her aunt gave no sign that 
she was pleased with her niece, or would give her 
further help. 

But in the summer she made them an un- 
expected visit, and then Mrs. Creighton found 
out what Alice did not guess — that the 
hard-working, earnest girl had quite won the 
old lady's heart, and that she wanted Alice 

So for several years Alice spent the winter 
months in New York, and the rest of the year 
at home, working hard wherever she was; and 
at last her work began to attract attention in 

the school, and gain recognition among artistic 
people outside. 

Her work was not all easy, and it was ten 
years from the time of her first lonely journey 
to New York, when she painted the picture 
which was her best, and brought her " little cup 
of fame," as she laughingly said. She painted 
it at home in the autumn, with her mother lov- 
ingly watching every brush-stroke. How they 
talked and laughed, as it grew, over the scene 
it represented ! 

It was the picture of that same back-yard, 
glowing with autumn colors, in the midst of 
which stood a young girl with upstretched 
arms, looking in great distress at a departing 
flock of geese. 

The scattered corn, and the cobs which she 
had dropped, her mother's dismayed face at 
the window — all were there. They named 
the picture, " Riches have wings." 




Freshman: "Try to stop me, Billy, when I go to pass you.' 

Eillv : " Try to stop you, hey?" 

i > w 


f., AW''', 

"Why, my boy, 'bucking the center' is my forte." 
J 9 

_y* ■ * 

By Virginia Woodward Cloud. 

OWN Durley Lane a-singing as I chanced for to go, 
The brier was a-blossom, and the hedges were a-blow- 
There I spied a piper, a-piping to the sky, 
So down the lane and after him away went I. 

" Oh, tell me, piper, tell me, why go you piping here ? " 
" For honey-stalks and ox-lips and all the sweet o' year I ' 

" Oh, tell us, farmer, tell us, why go you whistling gay ? " 
" For barley-break and yellow moon and tossing of the hay / " 



ut upon the highway from the "'i 
nodding grass, 
A-trilling of a silver song, we met a 
lovely lass ; 
She only smiled — I know not yet just 

how it did befall, 
But up the highway, after her, away 
went we all ! 

Oh, tell us, lovely, lovely lass, why go you singing 
there ? " 
iL#*<!'' ,w>» , " Why, but for love-in-idleness, and 

C/' . g? wtlmL /~^r-^ dancing at the fair J" 




here, about a milestone, where the hill began, 

A-leaping and a-skipping we found the queerest man ; 
He hopped and he laughed — 't was very strange to see, — 
So up the hill, and after him, away went we ! 

Now,pryihee, merry gentleman, why go you laughing, too ? " 
Forsooth, fair mates, because I fared this way, and 
met with you/" i 



vty0 .^^ 

--->«,\ x 

i8 9 5-: 





nd lo, upon the hill-top, a mighty mistress gay, 

Her satin petticoat was grand, her feathers fine were they ! 
Her buckles and her ribbons they flouted foot and head, 
So, o'er the hill-top, after her, away we all sped ! 

" Oh, mistress, mighty mistress, what brings you o'er the lea? " 
But she tossed her head light haughtily, and proudly 
past minced she. 

2 4 



nd then, with pipe and singing, with laugh and whistle shrill, 
The maddest music there was made a-dashing down the hill ! 
Until upon the green ways, nigh to Durley Fair, 
We smiled at one another — and wondered we were there! 

" Now, why go we a-faring about the green ways here ? " 
" For such a blithesome company, a?id all the sweet o' year/" 


2 5 

DT why the Piper piped a tune so keenly strange and sweet, 
And why the Farmer whistled so joyous through his wheat, 
And what the magic meaning of the lovely lassie's song, 
And why the queer man should leap so merrily along, 

[And of that mighty mistress, who was so wondrous fine, — 
With buckles peering through the dusk like fireflies a-shine), 

e never grew the \viser,nor learned what 't was about, 
Although we danced upon the green until the 

stars shone out ; 
And no one knows unto this day the how and 

why and where — ■ 
Save that each followed someone else well-nigh 

to Durley Fair. 

Yet this, methiuks, is very clear — in truth 7 is 

passing plain — 
/ tripped it once, when the world was gay, adown 

green Du?iey Lane I 

V ' i 

1. '■'■■'"'>■/,', 

, v "l .'.,. , ' 1 


; e 


Vol. XXIII.— 4-5. 


(A Story of the Year 30. 4. B.) 

By William O. Stoddard. 

Chapter I. 


A score of mounted spearmen were gallop- 
ing sharply along the broad, well-kept highway 
that led past the foot-hills of Mount Gilboa 
toward the southern gate of the ancient city of 
Jezreel. The pattern of their burnished hel- 
mets, and their arms and armor, indicated that 
they were from the light cavalry of some 
Roman legion. There was but little conversa- 
tion among them, but as they rode on enough 
was said by both officers and men to tell that 
they were pursuing fugitives, whom they ex- 
pected soon to overtake. 

" We shall cut them down before they reach 
Jezreel," came from a harsh voice in the ranks. 

" Slay them not," responded the foremost 
horseman. " The old smith must be crucified, 
and the boy is wanted for the circus." 

Less than a mile eastward from the highway 
and the horsemen, under thick tree-shelter on 
the brow of a hill, stood two persons who 
eagerly watched the passage of the cavalry, and 
seemed to know their errand. One was a well 
grown, handsome youth, with dark, closely 
curling hair, clear olive complexion, and eyes 
that were really glittering in their brilliancy. 
He may have been somewhat over sixteen years 
of age; but that is no longer boyhood among 
the nations of the East. The simple dress that 
he wore — a sleeveless tunic of thin woolen 
cloth — hardly concealed the lithe, sinewy form 
that seemed to promise for him the suppleness 
of a young panther. Over his left arm was 
thrown a loosely fitted linen garment — a kind 
of robe, to be put on when needed; and on his 
feet were sandals. A leather belt around his 
waist sustained a wallet. 

The other person was a powerfully built, 

middle-aged man, with a deeply lined, intelli- 
gent face. There was a strong resemblance 
between the two, but there was one marked 
difference. The features of the man were of 
the highest type of the old Hebrew race, and 
his nose was aquiline, while that of the boy was 
straight, and his lips were thinner, as if in him 
the Hebrew and Greek races had been merged 
into one. 

The summer air was wonderfully pure and 
clear. The two watchers could almost discern 
the trappings of the cavalry horses, while the 
Carmel mountain ridges, far across the plain of 
Esdraelon before them, rose above the horizon 
with a distinctness impossible in any moister 
atmosphere. Behind them, eastward, were the 
forests and crags of Gilboa, and the elder of 
the fugitives turned and anxiously scanned its 
broken outline. 

They seemed to have escaped for a time, 
for the Roman spearmen were galloping away 
steadilv ; and the young man shook his clenched 
fist at them as he exclaimed : 

" Ye wolves ! We could have dared the Sa- 
maritan mob, if it had not been for you." 

" But, Cyril, hearken," responded his father, 
gloomily ; " there were too many, even of the 
mob. There is but one hope for us now. We 
are followed closely, and we could not long be 
concealed here. I must flee into the wilder- 
ness until this storm is over. It will pass. Go 
thou to our kinsmen in Galilee. Go first to 
the house of Isaac Ben Nassur, and see thy 
sister ; but stay not long in Cana. If thou art 
not safe in Galilee, go on and join one of the 
bands in the fastnesses of Lebanon, or find thy 
way to Cassarea." 

" Nay, father," exclaimed Cyril. " Lois is 
safe there in Cana. It is better I should go 
with thee. Thou wilt need me." 



His brave young face was flushed with in- 
tense earnestness as he spoke. His father had 
been watching it with eyes that were full of 
pride in his son, but he interrupted him, al- 
most sternly. 

" Go, as I bid thee," he said. " So shalt 
thou escape the galleys or the sword. Whither 
I go, I know not ; but what becomes of me is 
of less importance, now that my right hand has 
failed me." 

He stretched out his hand, and Cyril shud- 
dered, although he must often have seen it. 
Sinewy, remarkably muscular as was the bare 
bronzed arm, all below its wrist was shriv- 
eled, distorted, withered, perhaps by rheuma- 
tism or some kindred affliction. The father's 
face grew dark and bitter as he added : " Who, 
now, would believe that this hand had led the 
men of Galilee when they slew the soldiers of 
Herod the Great in the streets of Jerusalem? 
We were beaten ? Ay, they outnumbered us ; 
but how they did go down ! 'T was a great 
day — that old Passover fight. I have smitten 
the wolves of Rome, too, in more places than 
they know of!- Many and many a good blade 
have I shaped and tempered — many a shield 
and helmet ; but the war-work and the anvil- 
work of Ezra the Swordmaker are done, and 
he goes forth a crippled beggar — yea, even a 
hunted wild beast ! Go, my son ; go thou to 
Isaac Ben Nassur." 

" I will go," replied Cyril, with tears on his 
face and a tremor in his voice ; " but when — 
when shall I see thee again ? " 

" The Lord, the God of our fathers, he only 
knoweth," said Ezra. " There have been terri- 
ble times for Israel, and there are bloodier days 
to come. I am glad thy mother is at rest. 
Only thou and Lois remain. Our kindred are 
fewer than they were. Something tells me that 
the day of a great vengeance is near at hand. 
So all the prophets tell us. O my son, be thou 
ready for the coming of the promised King ! " 

"The King! " Cyril exclaimed. "Why does he 
not come now ? Why is it that our people 
are left without a leader, to be slaughtered like 
sheep ? " 

" Who shall know the counsel of the Most 
High ? " reverently responded Ezra. " But the 
Messiah, the Prince of the house of David, the 

Captain of the host of Israel, he will surely 
come ! " 

Something of their family history presented 
itself in their after-talk. Long years ago, it 
appeared, a Greek proselyte to the Jewish faith, 
a woman of high character and great beauty, 
named Lois, had met with Ezra the Sword- 
maker at a Passover week at Jerusalem, and 
had not long afterward become his wife. She 
had been as zealous a believer as if she had 
been born a daughter of Abraham. 

They talked of her, and of the young Lois 
at Cana, and of the oppressions of their people, 
and of the seeming hopelessness of any present 
help ; but at last Ezra turned and waved his 
withered right hand westward. 

" On that plain of Esdraelon," he said, "since 
the world was made more men have fallen by 
the sword than upon any other piece of ground. 
In the day of the coming King, in the year of 
his redeemed, there shall be fought there the 
greatest of all battles, on the field of blood in 
the valley before Jezreel." 

He seemed truly to grow in stature. His 
face flushed, and his voice rang out like a trum- 
pet. All the fierce enthusiasm of the brave old 
Hebrew, however, was reproduced in the face 
and attitude of his son. Cyril looked toward 
Esdraelon and Carmel with eyes that blazed, 
and cheeks that were white instead of red. 

" The great battle ! " he exclaimed. " Dost 
thou think I may be there ? " 

"God grant it!" responded the swordmaker, 
with great solemnity. " I have taught thee my 
trade ; thou hast also learned every feat that is 
to be performed with the sword and spear. I 
have taught thee to box, and to wrestle, and to 
swim. Thou art as fleet of foot as Asahel — as 
fleet as a wild roe. Thou art perfect, for thy 
age, with the bow and with the sling. I have 
hoped for thee that thou mayest be a captain. 
Therefore, as thou goest, learn all there is to 
know about war. Learn from the Romans ; 
study their camps and forts, and the marching 
of their cohorts. What we need is their drill 
and their discipline. Go, now. If I am slain, 
I am slain. Live thou, and be strong ; and 
pray that in the day that is coming thou mayest 
indeed fight at the right hand of the anointed 
King of Israel." 




For one short moment he held Cyril tightly 
in his arms, and then they parted. The face of 
the old warrior-armorer grew stern, perhaps de- 
spairing, but he turned and silently strode away 


toward the rugged declivities of the Gilboa 

Cyril stood, motionless, looking after his fa- 
ther until the rocks and trees hid him from 
view. He turned again toward the plain, but 
it was no time for thinking of the mighty hosts 
which had met there or were yet to meet. The 

spot he stood on was no hiding-place, and the 
boy, too, must flee for his liberty or his life. 

The galloping spearmen had long since dis- 
appeared, and now Cyril's eyes fell upon some- 
thing that lay on the 
ground at his feet. He 
stooped and picked it 
up — a little bag that 
answered with a chink 
to the shake he gave 
it. He had known that 
it was there, but acted 
as if he had been un- 
conscious of it until 
now. He untied it and 
poured out the con- 
tents into his hand. 

" Seven shekels and 
twenty denarii," he 
mused. " I am afraid 
he gave me all he had. 
He can get more, if he 
can reach his friends 
at the cave in the wil- 
derness, of Judea. I 
want to go there some 
day. I wish I could 
be with him now, and 
not in Galilee. I will 
not spend one denarius 
until I am compelled 

He put the money 
back into the bag and 
hid it under his tunic. 
It was not a large 
sum, but it was quite 
a provision, in that 
time and place, for a 
young fellow like him. 
The shekel, nomi- 
nally worth sixty-two 
and a half cents of our 
money, was a Hebrew coin, and it might have 
been called the dollar of Palestine but that it 
would buy so much more than would a dollar 
of the present day. The denarius was a Roman 
coin worth sixteen cents, and was a fair day's 
wages for a laboring-man. 

Cyril's bag, therefore, contained his living for 

i8 95 .: 


2 9 

three months, if he could prevent it from being 
violently taken away by one kind of robber or 
another. There were many, of many kinds, for 
such as he, and he was mindful of them while 
he so carefully concealed the bag. During the 
years that he could remember, thousands of 
Jewish youths had been sold into slavery, and 
thousands of Jewish patriots, such as Ezra, had 
been slain with the sword or crucified beside the 
highways. He had evidently been, himself, an 
eye-witness of terrible scenes, and his eyes were 
flashing angrily as he recalled them. 

" Oh, that the King of Israel would come ! " 
he exclaimed aloud. " He will rule at Jerusa- 
lem and in Samaria ! He will conquer the 
Romans ! He will subdue the world ! I will 
go to Galilee, now, but I hope to be with him 
on that day, — the day of the great battle in the 
valley before Jezreel ! " 

He set off at once down the hillside, toward 
the very highway along which the cavalry had 
ridden. It led toward Jezreel, but it also led 
toward the boundary-line between the district 
of Samaria, belonging to the region under Pon- 
tius Pilate, the representative of the Roman 
emperor Tiberius, and the district of Galilee, 
belonging to Herod Antipas, son of Herod the 
Great, who was also a subject of the Roman 
emperor. If Cyril were once across that line, 
the perils of such an insignificant fugitive from 
Samaria would be very much diminished, for 
there were jealousies between Herod and Pi- 
late, and the military forces of one of them did 
not trespass upon the territory of the other. No 
doubt there would be guards along the frontier 
as well as patrols on the great military road, 
and Cyril may have been thinking of such ob- 
stacles when he said : • 

" I can get through in spite of them — and I 
will die rather than be taken prisoner ! " 

As for Ezra the Swordmaker, he walked very 
rapidly for some time after parting from his son. 
More and more wild and rugged grew the 
scenery around him. He clambered out, at 
last, upon a bare, sunlit knob of granite, above 
a narrow valley in the middle of which was a 
cluster of rude dwellings. 

" No," he said, looking thoughtfully down 
upon them; " I must not sleep under a roof to- 
night. Neither will my boy. The villagers are 

hospitable enough, but who knows what ene- 
mies I might find among them ? " 

He looked up, for a moment, but the cloud- 
lessly blue sky sent back no answer. He 
had murmured an earnest prayer in the old 
Hebrew tongue, and when he ceased he turned 
his face toward the north, the direction in which 
Cyril had gone. 

" My brave young lion ! " he exclaimed. " It 
must be his hand, not mine, that will hence- 
forth ply the hammer and draw the sword. I 
am like Israel and Judah, for my right hand is 
withered and I can strike no more." 

His deep, mournful voice rang out unheard 
through the solitude, and then he was silent. 
There was uncommon vigor in the firm, elastic 
step with which he now pushed forward, across 
broken ledges and through the tangled forest- 
growths, toward a mass of gloomy-looking cliffs 
which rose to the northward of the valley. 

Chapter II. 


The village street, in which the maiden stood 
by the well, wore a half-sleepy look, for little 
breeze was stirring and the day was warm. 
Others were coming and going, but she did not 
seem to be speaking to any of her companions. 
"It will be one of the largest wedding-parties 
they 've ever had in Cana," she was thinking. 
" The bride is very handsome, and is rich." 

She had put down her tall, slender-necked 
water-pitcher upon the circle of masonry around 
the mouth of the well. She stood erect, and 
the merry expression which had twinkled for a 
moment in her brilliant dark eyes faded away. 
They suddenly grew thoughtful, and her lip 
quivered as she exclaimed : 

" When will they come, and why do I not 
hear from them ? They may have been killed ! " 

Cana was a thriving village on the great 
highway through the hills west of the Sea of 
Galilee. From the main road a number of 
narrow, irregular streets wandered up and 
along a low hillside, and were bordered by 
houses that were built mostly of stone. The 
inhabitants had need for thrift and industry, if it 
were only because of the tax-gatherers; for 
Herod Antipas was building palaces, fortresses., 



and cities. He was living in magnificence, as 
were his many officers. All the people of his 
dominions paid taxes and bribes to him and them. 

While the consequences were often painful 
enough, there were no signs of actual poverty 
in the vicinity of the well. It stood several 
paces in front of a dwelling, two stories in 
height, which seemed somewhat better than its 
neighbors. The porch along its lower story- 
was thickly clad with vines, and from under 
these the girl had come to bring her jar to the 
well. A Jewish maiden of nearly fifteen was 
accounted a full-grown woman, and the slight- 
ness of her graceful figure did not interfere with 
an air of maturity which her present state of 
mind much increased. Her simple dress, that 
became her so well, was of good materials. 

Ranged on either side of the well were six 
large, cumbrous-looking water-pots of stone- 
ware, partly filled, for the convenience of any 
person wishing to perform the foot or hand ab- 
lutions required by the exacting ceremonial 
law of the Jews. 

The vine-clad porch was a pleasant place. 
It was provided with wooden benches ; and on 
one of these sat a man who seemed to con- 
sider himself a person of importance. Every 
movement, and even his attitude when sitting 
still, might be said to accord with a convic- 
tion that he, Rabbi Isaac Ben Nassur, was the 
wisest, the most learned man in Cana. 

He was very tall, as well as broad and heavy; 
and his thick, gray beard came down to the vo- 
luminous sash that was folded around his waist. 
His eyebrows were black and projecting ; his 
nose was prominent ; his black eyes were pier- 
cing ; he was dressed, as became a rabbi, or any 
other highly respectable Jew, in a long linen 
tunic with sleeves, that was belted by the sash. 
Over this he wore a long, loosely flowing robe, 
called an " abba," also of linen. Around his 
shoulders, with the ends falling in front, was 
a broad white woolen scarf, with narrow bars 
of red and purple and blue, and with blue tas- 
sels at the corners of each of its two ends. 
This was the " tallith," and was worn as a re- 
minder that the wearer must remember all the 
commandments of the Law and faithfully per- 
form them. 

Every good Jew wore a tallith, larger or 

smaller, and some were costly; but Rabbi Isaac 
was by no means a rich man, as even his well- 
worn sandals testified, and therefore his tallith 
was only of fine wool, without ornament. On 
his head, instead of a turban, was a long linen 
kerchief so folded that three of the corners fell 
down at the back and sides. A band kept the 
kerchief in place. 

In front of the rabbi stood a tall young man, 
listening with most reverent attention, having 
taken off his turban to receive his father's ad- 

The thick vine-leaves which veiled the shady 
porch did not prevent the sonorous voice of 
the rabbi from carrying at least as far as the well. 

The audience there consisted of more than 
one person. The women, of all ages, who 
came to the well with water-jars, were ready 
to rest and gossip a little before carrying them 
away on their shoulders or gracefully balanced 
upon their heads. 

Lois was disposed to ask, even eagerly, for 
other news than that of the village of Cana. 
She laughed when others did, but, as her gos- 
siping neighbors came and went, shadow after 
shadow, as of disappointment, flitted across her 
face. Not one of them had any news to tell 
her of the absent ones for whom she longed. 

It was evident that the wedding of Raphael, 
the near kinsman of Lois, and only son of the 
wise Rabbi Isaac, was considered an important 
event, and a welcome variation in the somewhat 
humdrum course of the daily life of the village. 
The rabbi himself, so regarding it, discoursed 
eloquently upon the general subject of matri- 
mony, as well as upon the especial ceremony 
now at hand; and Raphael would surely be a 
model husband if he should succeed in living up 
to his father's instructions. So said the laughing 
maids and matrons at the well. Almost all of 
them expected to have some share in the wed- 
ding festivities. Some were friends or kindred 
of the bride's family, and were to join the pro- 
cession from her residence which would escort 
her and the bridegroom to the house of Ben 
Nassur. Others were to wait with Lois and 
the rabbi's family until they should be told that 
the bridegroom was coming. Then they would 
go out to meet him. 

The wedding was to take place in the even- 



ing of the following day, whereupon seven days 
of feasting were to follow, and for these great 
preparations had been made. 

Kindred and friends were expected to come 
from far and near on 
such an occasion, and 
were welcomed with 
liberal hospitality. 

No news issometimes 
akin to good news, and 
the gossipers at the well 
had brought with them 
no alarming rumor of 
any kind. The shad- 
ows gradually flitted 
away from the face of 
Lois. She lifted her 
jar and put it upon her 
head. She was just dis- 
appearing through the 
porch into the house, 
when the. deep tones of 
Ben Nassur seemed to 
send a thrill through 
her. His whole manner 
had suddenly changed, 
and he was now stand- 
ing erect. 

" So now, my son," 
he said, " see to it that 
all things are ready for 
the wedding. Speak 
not to any man, im- 
prudently, of this that 
I now tell thee. I go 
to the house of Na- 
thaniel, to hear more; 
but a mounted mes- 
senger from Samaria, 

this morning, brought tidings of another tu- 
mult in that city. More of our brethren have 
fallen by the swords of their enemies, and 
there was none to help, for the centurion in 
command there hates our nation as he hath 
oft proved. Accursed may he be ! " 

Bitter and wrathful were the face and voice 
of the rabbi, but the low-toned, fierce re- 
sponse of his son was not audible beyond the 
porch. Now, however, there were tears in the 

eyes of Lois, and her cheeks were white with 

"And my father and Cyril are in Samaria! " 
she exclaimed. '■ Oh, how I wish I could hear 
from them ! What if they have been slain, or — 
or crucified ! The Romans are merciless ! " 

( To be continued.) 



By Louise Willis Snead. 

Hallowe'en is a festival that should be es- 
pecially honored by young people. There are 
so many amusing and good-natured tricks, and 
so many innocent bits of " white magic " ap- 
propriate to the time, that no self-respecting 
youngster should allow its observance to be 
omitted by careless " grown-ups." 

There, for instance, are the " snap-dragon," 
and the " bobbing for apples," and the blowing 
out of a candle hung at the end of a stick sus- 
pended on a twisted string and balanced by an 
apple so contrived as to deal a smart blow upon 
the cheek of the too lingering candle-blower. 
And there are the many charms and contriv- 
ances that, once consulted in honest faith by 
rustic lovers, are now the pastime of boys and 
girls during an autumn evening. 

No doubt these charms and oracles are the 
relics of bygone superstitions, but there is no 
need to wait for that mystic hour of midnight 
when churchyards become sleepy and begin to 
yawn, when the harvest moon is shining, and 
when Titania leads her band of fairy dancers 
about the heads of little dreamers, simply be- 
cause old magicians preferred the " wee sma' 
hours." It will be quite as amusing to try 
one's fate in twilight, or early moonlight, and 
no doubt quite as efficacious. All children 
know daytime ways of learning one's destiny, 
but I wish to tell you especially how Southern 
children " tell fortunes." 

Living for nearly all the year round in the 
open air, with flowers and birds and insects for 
playmates, the children of the South are in 
close touch with nature ; and, naturally imbib- 
ing something of the superstitions of their de- 
voted and beloved black " mammies," they read 
" fortunes " in the simplest of nature's works. 
Imbued also from infancy with the romantic 
spirit of a Southern clime, every flower has a 
secret, every star holds a promise for the 
dreamy little lads and lassies who build castles 
in cloudland — and this same cloudland is a 
wonderful playground for them. The frequent 

thunder-showers fill heaven's dome with great 
banks of syllabub, which change from luminous 
cumulus to cirrus and stratus ; and the children 
discover wonderful forms that change as in a 
kaleidoscope before their eyes, each object pre- 
saging some future event which they plan ac- 
cording to their fancy. Of course each child 
knows the secrets the daisies tell — that custom 
lives wherever a daisy blows. The American 
children say, " He loves me, he loves me not," 
and the little French children say, " II m'aime, 
un peu, passionnement, pas du tout," counting 
off the petals ; and the little Southern children 
add, taking another daisy, " What is his pro- 
fession ? Rich man, poor man, beggar man, 
thief, — doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief," over 
and over until the petals are told. 

No flowers in the world delight little people 
as do the old-fashioned " pretty-by-nights," or 
" four-o'clocks," those dear, delicious pink and 
yellow blossoms, which the children string on 
long grasses, twisting the " strings " into wreaths 
to crown one another. Whoever makes the 
longest wreath will be the " finest lady," and 
each little lad works for her he likes best ; and 
they call the winner the " Princess," and deck 
her with bracelets, necklaces, and wreaths of 
" four-o'clocks," and dance about her till the 
shadows creep, when the little maids run home 
to their mamas, with strings of " pretty-by- 
nights." Then, when the new moon rises, each 
little girl steals to the vine-clad veranda and 
bows solemnly seven times, and makes a wish 
to the new moon. If the wish is " for somebody 
else," she will tell you, it " always comes true." 
But if no " moon be out to-night, love," then 
she will hail the first star, with : 

"Starlight, star bright, first star I see to-night, 
I wish I may, I wish I might, 
Have the wish I wish to-night ! " 

Then she makes the wish deep down in her 
little heart, and sometimes it comes true. 

I wish all children could know the joy of 



" pulling love-grass." I have seen lawns and 
pleasure-grounds dotted with merry children 
pulling love-grass, amidst peals of laughter, for 
hours. I have never seen " love-grass " at the 
North. It has a glossy green stem crowned with 
brown or green aigrettes. Two children select 
the grass stem, split one of the ends, and each 
holds an end. Then they propound any ques- 
tion they wish to solve, and as they pull the 
stem apart gently, it forms either an N or a Y, 
meaning no or yes. 

" Love-in-a-puff " is another fortune-teller; 
it gets its name from the fact that the tender 
little green puff holds three round seeds, each 
stamped with a perfect little heart. As in pop- 
ping rose-petals, the answer depends on the re- 
port of the " Love-in-a-puff." If it be sharp 
and loud, the answer is decidedly " yes " ; if it 
collapse noiselessly, that is a bad sign, meaning 
bad luck, or " no," as the question is put. The 
dandelion is another delight. If you can blow 
away all the little seeds at one breath, you can 
find the bags of gold at the ends of the rain- 

The four-leaved clover is always a prize to 
Southern children, as to all others, for it is a 
universal talisman of good fortune, zealously 
sought the " wide world over." 

There are three fortunes to be told with an 
apple. Peel the fruit without breaking the 
skin, and, holding the long spiral skin daintily 
by the end, swing it three times around the 
head, and let it fall to the ground ; whatever 
letter the skin then forms, is the initial of the 
sweetheart or friend who loves you best. 
Then, before eating your apple, have some 
one " name it," as they say, and after you 
have saved all the seeds, begin to count them, 
thus : 

One, I love; two, I love; three, I love, I say; 

Four, I love with all my heart, 

And five, 1 cast away. 

Six, she loves ; seven, he loves ; eight, both love. 

Nine, he comes; ten, he tarries. 

Eleven, he courts, and twelve, he marries. 

A more amusing fortune is that of plac- 
ing a fresh apple-seed on each eyelid, and 
naming each. The one which remains there 
longest is the truest and best. A famous 
custom consists of pouring a very little molten 


lead into a tub of cold water: there follows a 
splashing and hissing as the lead cools suddenly, 
and the shape of the lead reveals the future. 
Just as in all oracles, ever since the days of 
Delphi, and Diana of the Ephesians, the scien- 
tific work lies in reading the doubtful forecasts 

This game has whiled away many happy 
hours for Southern children on Hallowe'en and 
New Year's nights, and their young ambitions, 
hopes, and dreams help wonderfully to read 
the half-formed promises of the leaden emblems 
to their own satisfaction. 

The little white flecks that sometimes appear 
on the finger-nails signify, beginning with the 
thumb, " A present, friend, foe, letter to write, 
journey to go," according to whichever finger 
one appears upon. The time-honored supersti- 
tion of " blessing " one who sneezes originated 
years and years ago in England when a plague 
of influenza made superstitious persons bless 
all who sneezed, lest they die of the dreaded 
disease. A string of nursery rhymes makes 
even sneezing prophetic : 

If you sneeze on Monday, you sneeze for danger, 
If you sneeze on Tuesday, you '11 kiss a stranger; 
If you sneeze on Wednesday, you sneeze for a letter, 
If you sneeze on Thursday, for something better; 
If you sneeze on Friday, you sneeze for sorrow, 
If you sneeze on Saturday, you '11 see your sweet- 
heart to-morrow. 
But if you sneeze on Sunday, your safety seek, 
Or the goblins will have you the rest of the week ! 

For the days of the week Southern children 
often repeat this well-known jingle regarding 
birthdays : 

Monday's child is fair of face, 
Tuesday's child is full of grace ; 
Wednesday's child is full of woe, 
Thursday's child has far to go; 
Friday's child is loving and giving, 
Saturday's child must work for its living; 
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day 
Is blithe and bonny, and good and gay. 

Here is a way to test your friends and 
enemies. Write any person's name below that 
of the one whose friendship you wish to prove, 
cancel all common letters, and repeat these 
words in counting off the uncanceled letters 
that remain in each name, thus : " Friendship, 
love, indifference, hatred." Here is an example 

i8 9 5-] 



which shows clearly that George Washington 
had a feeling of friendship for Benjamin Frank- 
lin, while the latter's affection for the great chief- 
tain was strong enough to be called love : 

G^wg<? Washington 
Benjamin Fratiklin 


For the months of the year, regarding birth- 
days, there is a set of rhymes stating that he 
who wears the gem of his birth-month is in- 
sured all manner of happiness and good for- 
tune, the stones being : 

January Hyacinth. 

February Amethyst. 

March Jasper. 

April Sapphire. 

May Agate. 

June Emerald. 

July Onyx. 

August Carnelian. 

September Chrysolite. 

October Beryl . 

November Topaz. 

December Ruby. 

There are countless absurdities believed to 
presage ill-luck or good fortune, of which the 
following are well-known instances : 

If you see a pin and pick it up, 

All through the day you '11 have good luck. 

But see a pin and let it lie, 

You '11 need a pin before you die. 

" Sing before breakfast, you '11 weep before 

" Tell your dream before breakfast, it will 
come true." 

" If you meet a cross-eyed person in the road, 
you will stumble on the way home ; if you 
stumble on the way home, you won't be mar- 
ried this year." 

" If you see a lone buzzard sailing aloft," or 
" if the scissors stick up in falling," somebody 
is coming — usually a safe prediction! 


By Franklin Matthews. 

A successful launch of a large vessel has 
been called the crowning moment of a ship- 
builder's career. Some one has said also that 
a launch is the most delicate part of a ship- 
builder's work. It is very difficult to say what 
is the most delicate part of ship-building, for 
the simple reason that there does n't seem to 
be any part of it that is n't delicate. No more 
complex machinery is made than the wonder- 
ful marine engine ; no more carefully designed 
structure exists than the hull of a modern steam- 
ship. A launch is as much a matter of mathe- 
matics as any part of the work of building a 
ship, and perhaps it is because launches are al- 
ways inspiring that they have been called the 
crowning occasions of ship-building. 

It is only since the United States began to 
build a new navy that we have had launches 
of large vessels in this country. We have built 
so many fine war-ships that it was not unusually 
difficult for us to build merchant vessels of the 
first grade, and we have just finished two ships 
next in size to the two largest ships that are afloat 

in the world. Building these ships was a great 
achievement, however, and hence the cere- 
mony of putting them into the water from dry 
land attracted great attention throughout the 
country, and was attended in each case by 
thousands of spectators. They saw the pictu- 
resque side of each of these events. They saw 
the foam as the christening bottle of wine was 
broken upon the bow. They heard the cheers 
and shouts, and helped to make them. They 
waved their hats and handkerchiefs as the ship 
began to glide down into the water, and each 
man almost held his breath until he saw her 
safe in the stream and acknowledging the 
plaudits of the multitude by making a graceful 

Impressive as the launch of a great vessel al- 
ways is, it nevertheless seems a simple matter. 
All there is to do is to build two toboggan 
slides under the ship, raise her from the sup- 
ports on which she has been resting, put a lot 
of tallow on the slides, and, when you are ready, 
saw loose the thick plank that holds the ship 






by the nose, and let her glide into the water. 
You must have the wine to christen her, and a 
crowd to cheer her, and some tugs to catch her 
and bring her back to her pier; but all these 
are mere details, and it would seem as if any 
ship could almost launch herself if she had half 
a chance. 

A launch is simply taking a ship from the 
side of a stream down to the bank, and drop- 
ping her in the water where she belongs. This 
involves the task of lifting a mass of iron, in a 
ship like the " St. Louis," of about seven thou- 
sand tons, and the work of lowering it carefully 
for a distance of from twenty to forty feet. All 
this has to be done in the space of about thirty 
seconds, during which the vessel moves nearly 
six hundred feet. At once you can see that 
this is an enormous task. It involves the great- 
est responsibility in a short time that the ship- 

builder meets. There is no opportunity to cor- 
rect errors. Every mechanical appliance must 
work to perfection, and the manual details must 
be as nicely adjusted as the parts of a watch. 
You can launch a vessel as you can build one, 
on the rule-of-thumb or the hit-or-miss plan, 
and you may not come to grief; but it is best 
to put all these things in charge of that master 
spirit called Science, which has done so much 
for our physical advancement in this world, for 
then you know that it will be done properly. 

It has often been said that man begins to die 
the moment that he begins to live. It might 
also be said that a ship begins to be launched 
the moment she begins to be built. The first 
thing in the actual construction is to arrange the 
keel-blocks on which the ship is to rest while 
she is building. They must be placed at certain 
distances apart, and each must be a little higher 

i8 95 - 



than its neighbor nearer the water. These 
blocks are usually of the stoutest oak, and are 
placed from two to three feet apart. They must 
have a regular inclination, or the ship cannot 
be launched. In vessels like the St. Louis the 
incline is about one half an inch in height to a 
foot in length. In smaller vessels it is often 
more than one inch to the foot. Larger ves- 
sels have so much weight that a sharp incline 
is not as necessary as with smaller ones. The 
keel of the ship is laid on these blocks, and as 
fast as the sides of the vessel are built up great 
props are placed against them to make sure 
that by no accident will the vessel topple over. 
At length the hull of the ship is completed. 
Then it is that the launching apparatus is pre- 
pared. This consists of two parts, one that re- 
mains fixed on the ground and one that glides 
into the water with the ship. The part that 
goes into the water is the cradle. It is that 
part in which the hull of the vessel rests snugly, 

and probably that is why it is called a cradle. 
When the time comes for the launch, a long 
row of blocks is built under each side of the 
ship at an equal distance from the keel-blocks, 
and of the same inclination. On these blocks 
rest first the stationary " ways." These consist 
of broad planks of oak from three to four feet 
wide, capable of sustaining a weight of from 
two to two and one half tons to the square foot. 
On top of these ways are the "sliding ways," of 
nearly the same breadth, and between the two 
the tallow is placed. A narrow cleat runs along 
the edge of the stationary ways so that the slid- 
ing ways shall not slip off as they carry the 
ship along. Above the sliding ways is what is 
called the " packing." This consists of pieces 
of timber packed close against the curving 
sides of the vessel to hold it firm to the sliding 
ways beneath. The curves in the hull vary so 
much that it would be impossible to fit the slid- 
ing ways to them, and so, by means of packing, 

- , f^j<«5s>>». 5 »-v«w - 





the ship is fitted to the ways instead. The pack- 
ing and the sliding ways constitute the cradle, 
and it is fastened to the ship by stout ropes. 
Along its length, at intervals of about eighteen 
inches, are big wedges, the points of which are 
inserted between the sliding ways and the pack- 
ing. A rope about the thickness of a clothes- 
line runs from wedge to wedge, so that none 
may be lost when they float into the water. 

We are now ready for the launch. Tallow 
to the thickness of about an inch has been 
spread between the ways as they were put in 

~ ran "^tt 


i. The Packing. 

2. The Sliding Ways. 

3. The Stationary Ways. 

4. The Keel-block. 

5. Wedges. 

6. The Props. 

7. Piling. 

8. Level of the Ground. 

position, nearly sixty barrels being necessary for 
a ship like the St. Louis. The cradle sets 
snugly against the ship's bottom. The vessel, 
however, is still resting on the keel-blocks. The 
task now is to transfer the ship from these keel- 
blocks to the launching supports, and to take 
away the keel-blocks. Then, when the weight 
of the ship rests on the launching ways alone, 
all that is necessary is to saw away the " sole- 
piece " at the bow, where the stationary and 
sliding ways are fastened together, and the ship 
by her own weight will probably slide into the 
water. If she needs a start, several "jacks" 
using hydraulic power are ready beneath the 
keel to lift her a trifle and give her a push. 

All the props have been taken down except 
a few that reach only a little way up the sides. 
A platform with a railing, on which the stalwart 
workmen may rest the stout pieces of timber 
they use as battering-rams when they are driving 
home the wedges, has been erected along the 
sides of the ship. There are nearly six hun- 
dred workmen distributed along the sides, in 
gangs of four each. Each gang has five wedges 

to look after. The time set for the launch is 
usually just before high water, where the stream 
has a tide. A dredge has been used directly in 
the path the vessel will take when she makes 
her plunge, so that she may strike no obstruc- 
tions. Every part of the ways has been in- 
spected. If the weather is cold, lard-oil has 
been mingled with the tallow to make it soft; 
and if the weather is warm, stearine has been 
mixed with it to make it hard. 

It is about an hour before the time for the 
ship to move. The workmen are summoned 
and the signal is given for the first " rally." All 
at once a great din arises. It is as if an army 
of street-pavers were at work beneath the ship. 
If you peer through the crowd you will see the 
men drawing back the battering-rams and then 
projecting them sharply against wedge after 
wedge. This work continues for four or five 
minutes, and then an inspection is made. It is 
necessary that the wedges be driven in uni- 
formly. The effect of this rally seems imper- 
ceptible. It has resulted, however, in driving 
the packing close up against the sides of the 
ship, and, when that was accomplished, has 
driven the sliding ways down hard upon the 
stationary ways, squeezing out the tallow here 
and there. But the ship still rests upon the 

After a rest of fifteen or twenty minutes a 
second rally comes. This is more spirited than 
the first. In go the wedges, and the great hull 
seems to tremble just the least bit. She is be- 
ginning to rest on the launching ways. At last 
she is raised the smallest fraction of an inch 
above the keel-blocks. Now comes the time 
for quick work. Here is where the " pioneers" 
begin to swing their axes. One gang of men 
rushes up to the few props that are still resting 
against the sides of the hull. Quick blows are 
given, timbers and chips begin to fly, and prop 
after prop falls to the ground. Another gang 
of men is rushing after the pioneers. They are 
the painters, and with long brushes on the ends 
of poles, they daub over the places where the 
props rested, which could not be painted until 
the props were taken away. 

Underneath the ship another gang of men 
is making havoc with the keel-blocks. Sharp 
chisels are being inserted on the sides of the 

■ 8 9 5-J 



blocks, and sledges are used as die workmen 
come up from the river toward the bow, 
knocking this way and that the blocks which 
have been the support of the ship ever since 
she was first laid down. At last, apparently 
after much confusion but really in accordance 
with a careful system, all the keel-blocks are 
knocked away, and the supreme moment has 

wrecked as she goes sliding down toward the 
water. She is held entirely by the stout piece 
of timber that clamps the stationary and sliding 
ways together just underneath the bow. 

The christening party is standing on a plat- 
form under the bow, and just about where the 
water-line begins. The word to saw away 
the sole-piece has been given. A stillness 



arrived. All the wedges have been driven 
home, and their outer edges are in a line as 
straight as a file of soldiers on dress parade. 
The ship rests on an entirely new foundation 
and a very treacherous one. There are no 
side-supports to keep her from toppling over. 
The toboggan slides are ready for work, and 
they must be true in their inclination and in 
their horizontal position, or the ship will be 

comes upon the throng, and the zip, zip, zip 
of the big saws on each side of the ship is 
heard distinctly more than fifty yards away. 
The young woman who is to name the vessel 
has placed one hand against the bow to feel 
the first tremor of life, and in the other she 
holds the decorated bottle of champagne, en- 
meshed in a silk web, ready to strike the 
bottle against the bow. 



The vessel shakes along her entire length ; 
there comes a crash ; she breaks away before 
the saws have cut her loose ; a terrific din 
arises ; the christening words are spoken but 
not heard ; and the stately ship begins to glide 
down the ways apparently without effort, and 
with the ease of a ship coming up a bay under 
half speed. She strikes the water, kicks up a 
big wave that goes rolling across the stream, 
and then drops at the bow into the water. 
The tide catches her in its arms, and tries 
to run away with her, but the men on board 
drop the anchors into the water, and the tugs 
that have been lying near by catch hold of 
her, and in a few minutes she is led captive 
to her dock, ever after that to obey the master 
mind that shall guide her over the sea. 

That a launch is a matter of mathematics, 
as well as of great skill and labor, is shown by 
the fact that the man of science who has the 
matter in charge always makes a set of cal- 
culations showing the strain on the ship and 
its precise condition at practically every foot 
of the journey down the ways. If a boat 
should get in the way, or if it should take 
an unusual length of time to knock out the 
keel-blocks, or if any one of half a dozen 
things should cause serious delay, the scientific 
man knows just how long he can wait, and 
just how far the limit of safety extends. 

There is always one supreme moment in a 
launch, and it is at a time that escapes the 
average spectator. It is when the vessel gets 
fairly well into the water. This is when an im- 
portant factor known as the " moment of buoy- 
ancy " comes into play. If you can imagine a 
vessel sliding down an incline without any wa- 
ter into which to drop, you can see that the 
vessel would tip down suddenly at the end 
which has left the ways, and would rise at the 
end still on the incline. But really, in success- 
ful launches, the stern of the vessel is gradually 
lifted up by the water, and this throws the 
weight forward on that part of the ship still 
resting on the ways. The force of the water is 
called the " moment of buoyancy," and the 
natural tendency of the ship to drop to the bot- 
tom of the stream is called the " moment of 
weight." Now the moment of buoyancy must 
always be greater than the moment of weight ; 

but it must not be very much greater, for if it 
were it would throw too much weight forward 
on the part of the ship still on the ways, and 
might break them down, or injure the plates or 
keel of the ship. When the great English bat- 
tle-ship " Ramillies" was launched, this did really 
happen ; and so great was the strain near the 
bow that parts of the cradle were actually 
pushed right into the bottom of the vessel. It 
is this danger of disaster that causes the scien- 
tific launcher to make the most careful calcula- 
tions as to the conditions surrounding the ship 
at every foot of her journey into the water. 

In this country most of the launches on the 
seaboard are made stern foremost. Sometimes, 
however, a ship is launched bow on. Along 
the great lakes the usual custom is to launch 
ships sidewise. On the great Clyde, in Scot- 
land, they are launched obliquely into the river 
because it is so narrow. Had any of the large 
ships which have been built there in recent years 
been launched at right angles to the stream, one 
end of the ship would have stuck in the bank 
on the other side before the vessel had entirely 
left the ways. Where side launches are used, 
there are eight or ten ways made instead of two, 
and when the ship reaches the end of the in- 
cline she simply drops into the stream along her 
entire length. Sometimes it is necessary to 
check a vessel in a very short distance after 
launching. This is done by a series of drags, 
or flying cables, which are set in motion on the 
ground beside the ship, each one coming into 
play at regular intervals as she goes down the 
incline, and each helping to hold back the ship 
until she is under complete control the moment 
she reaches the water. 

When the ship is finally clear, and the hur- 
rahing is over, the workmen clamber on the 
ways and even go out in small boats to gather 
up the tallow for use on another occasion. 

The crowd now begin to go home. They 
have seen the ship "put overboard." Few of 
them, however, have seen the most interesting 
part of the work — that which goes on under- 
neath the ship. It is there that the hard work 
is done, but it would not do to allow the spec- 
tators to come near the workmen. These men 
must work briskly, and must be able to attend 
to their duties without interference of any kind. 


By Minnie B. Sheldon. 

The Bradys were moving. Now, moving is 
one thing with some persons and another thing 
with other persons. When some families move, 
professional packers at six dollars a day come 
in, and the work is done with beautiful neatness 
and despatch. 

It was not so with the Brady family. They 
were their own packers-in-chief, and their as- 
sistants were not professionals — in fact, they 
were only Jim and Charlie Ryan, two boys 
aged respectively twelve and fourteen, from 
next door. 

The Bradys and the Ryans lived away in 
the upper part of New York, on Eighth Ave- 
nue, very near the Manhattan Field and the 
Polo Grounds. If they had not lived so near 
the Manhattan Field it is very doubtful if Jim 
and Charlie would have been helping the 
Bradys to move. And for this reason. Be- 
cause they lived so near the Field, of course 
they knew all that any boys could possibly know 
of everything which was going on there. This 
goes without saying. Were they not boys ? 
Had they not eyes ? And were there not knot- 
holes in the fence ? 

But not only did they know what had taken 
place within that charmed inclosure in the past, 
Vol. XXIII.— 6. 4 

they also knew precisely what was going to 
take place there in the future — the near future 
— only a few days later, in fact. The Great 
Football Game would be played there at that 
time; and was anything else in the world worth 
one moment's thought in comparison with the 
interest of that event ? If you are in any 
doubt, just ask any two boys aged twelve and 

Now, such is the tyranny of League and As- 
sociation managers that football games require 
tickets in order to be seen; and tickets cost 
money; and money with Jim and Charlie Ryan 
was very scarce. 

Of course, as I have already said, there were 
still the knot-holes, but how exceedingly unsat- 
isfactory they were, after all ! To have those 
tantalizing glimpses of wild, rushing masses of 
men inside, to hear the shouts, to feel the ex- 
citement in the tingle of the chills running down 
one's back, and then to think of what it would 
be to hold in one's hand one of those magic bits 
of card which would enable a boy to pass un- 
questioned to a full view of all that was to be 
seen and enjoyed on the other side of those 
knot-holes, — that was the thought which in- 
spired Jim and Charlie as they were helping 




the Bradys to move. For Mr. Brady had done 
some work on the Field a few days before, and 
he had received two tickets of admission to 
the football game as part payment for his time 
there. And as he was now going away, and 
so could not use the tickets himself, he had 
offered them to the Ryan boys in return for 
such services as they could render in packing 
boxes, running errands, and otherwise making 
themselves useful. They had accepted the offer, 
of course : the tickets would soon be theirs, and 
their joy and gratitude were boundless. 

Now Jim and Charlie had a little brother 
Tom. Tom was only eight, and perhaps you 
think his interest in football had not grown yet. 
Well, that shows how little you know of eight- 
year-old boys. Why, not even Jim or Char- 
lie could possibly want to see that game more 
than Tom did ! But alas ! he was too little to 
help the Bradys; and even if he had not been, 
Mr. Brady had no more tickets to give to any 
one ; and Tom had made up his mind that for 
him the knot-holes would be the only way. 
He hung around the Bradys' little stationery- 
store forlornly, hoping against hope that some- 
thing would turn up whereby he might finally 
get a ticket ; but the last day came, the boxes 
were all packed, Jim and Charlie received their 
reward, and still there was nothing for poor 

At least, almost nothing. Just at the last 
moment Mrs. Brady came out of a back room 
with something soft and dark in her arms. 

" Tom," she said, " I wish we had one o' 
them tickets for you, as you wants so much ; 
but Mr. Brady, you see, he only got two, and 
them we 've give to your brothers. But if you 'd 
like this here cat, why, we can't take it with 
us, and you 'd be welcome to it." 

At this Jim and Charlie shouted derisively. 
A cat .' And as a substitute for a ticket to the 
football game! Well, well! But little Tom 
thought that if he could not see the game he 
might as well take what he could get ; so in 
spite of his brothers' jeers he held out his arms 
for the offered gift, and received for his share 
of the spoils an unusually large and handsome 

" What a pretty one ! " he exclaimed, as he 
stroked its fur, and already began to feel the 

pride and interest of ownership. " And what 
a funny color ! " 

It was an odd color — or colors. It was jet- 
black, with large tawny or orange stripes across 
its back and breast; and, both on this account 
and because of its unusual size, the cat would 
have attracted attention anywhere. Even 
Tom's brothers began to take a slight interest 
in it, as they realized its size and coloring, and 
then, as Jim was looking at it curiously, he 
suddenly exclaimed : 

" I declare, if it ain't a Princeton cat ! It 's 
orange and black, as sure as you 're born ! Say, 
Tom, give it to me, will you ? " 

This was a little too much. That Jim, who 
had that precious ticket in his pocket, should 
now wish to possess the cat also ! Even Char- 
lie remonstrated. 

" Don't you do it, Tom ! " he advised. " Keep 
your cat yourself. Don't give it to anybody." 

And Tom briefly responded : 

" I ain't a-goin' ter! " 

So it was that Tom acquired " Princeton " ; so 
he kept Princeton for himself; and so, speedily, 
he became very fond of him, and, giving up all 
thought of the football game, devoted himself 
to his new acquisition. 

This was all very well for a while. But the 
day of the game arrived, and then, inevitably, 
the old yearnings toward an entrance into the 
Manhattan Field came back in full force. Jim 
and Charlie were all excitement and anticipa- 
tion, and immediately after breakfast on the 
day of the great game began to prepare for the 
coming event. Each boy put on his Sunday 
suit, brushed his hair, and blacked his boots ; 
and hours before it was time to start both 
were ready and waiting. Poor little Tom ! 
He had no pleasure in anticipation, and no- 
thing to prepare for ; and all he could do was 
to wander disconsolately about, with Princeton 
in his arms, and on his heart a great weight of 
longing and regret. 

While it was still early, and long, long before 
it was time for the game, Jim and Charlie 
decided to set forth, their impatience having 
grown too great to allow them to stay at home 
another minute. Of course they could not get 
into the Manhattan Field at that hour of the 
day, but they wanted to be on the spot, at any 




rate, and perhaps — who could tell ? — some- 
thing interesting and exciting might happen 
even as early in the morning as that. Tom went 
with them, and Princeton went with Tom, for 
these two had by this time become inseparable. 

" Princeton could climb up to the top of the 
fence and look over," 
said Tom, and added 
mournfully, " I wish / 

By and by, after 
what seemed almost 
a week to the impa- 
tient boys, the en- 
trance to the Field 
was opened, and a man 
began to take the ad- 
mission tickets. Jim 
and Charlie went in 
at once, leaving Tom 
and Princeton outside. 

Soon the spectators 
began to come, in 
crowds which grew 
larger and larger as 
the hour for the game 
drew nearer. Thou- 
sands of persons came 
pouring down the 
stairs from the elevated 
road, and thousands 
more from the horse- 
cars and cable-cars ; 
while carriages of all 
kinds, full of gaily 
dressed persons, were 
constantly being driven 
into the Field through 
the large entrance. 

Tom watched them 
all wistfully. Every 
one of that vast multi- 
tude had a ticket. Ev- 
ery one went through 

that gate and past that ticket-taker as freely 
and as easily as if the whole Field belonged 
to him alone. It seemed to Tom as if he were 
the only person in New York that day who 
could not see the football game if he wanted 
to do so. It was very hard. Still he stood 

there, watching with eager, fascinated eyes, 
while he held Princeton tightly, lest the cat 
should be lost in the crowd. 

Then presently the boy heard a great sound 
of shouts and cheering, and the mellow tone of 
a coaching-horn; and with a clatter, and the 


cracking of a long whip, a four-in-hand tally-ho 
came dashing up. Its four seats were filled 
with young men — from Princeton, evidently — 
for the orange-and-black was everywhere con- 
spicuous, on the coach, on the horses, and flut- 
tering gaily from the buttonhole of each man's 




greatcoat. They were a gay crowd altogether; 
and, as the coach came to a standstill near the 
entrance to the Field, Tom gazed at it and its 
occupants with open-eyed wonder and admira- 
tion. There were some carriages ahead of the 
coach, and it was stopped for a few moments 
just at Tom's side. 

Suddenly, as they waited, one of the men on 
the front seat caught sight of Princeton. 

" By the great horn spoon ! " he exclaimed. 
" I say, fellows, look at that cat ! Orange and 
black, by all that 's wonderful ! What a lark ! 
We '11 have it up here, and take it in to the 
game with us." Then, leaning forward, he called 
out to Tom, " I say, Johnny, will you lend us 
your cat for the day ? " 

" Well, you have a nerve ! " cried one of the 
other young men to this. " The idea of asking 
the kid to let you have his cat for nothing ! " 
Then he spoke to the now amazed and bewil- 
dered Tom. " Look here, young chap, do you 
want to sell that cat ? What '11 you take for it ? " 

Tom could hardly believe his ears. Did 
these remarkable young gentlemen really want 
Princeton ? And if so, what for ? He saw that 
they were all waiting for him to speak, and he 
came a little nearer to the coach. 

"Is it my cat, Princeton, you wants, sir?" 
Tom asked, addressing the man who had asked 
him if he would sell his cat. 

At this announcement of the cat's name, 
there was a shout of laughter from every man 
on the drag. Tom could not imagine what was 
the matter with them all. 

"Princeton ? " repeated one of the supporters 
of the orange-and-black. " Princeton ? Is that 
really the name of that cat ? Well, it 's a good 
one, I declare! We '11 have to have it now, 
sure. Come, Johnny, what will you take for 
it ? Hurry up, now; we can't wait ! " 

But Tom was not to be hurried into anything 
of that kind. " Sell Princeton ? " he thought 
quickly ; " what an idea ! " He would n't do it, 
not he ! But he might as well know what they 
wanted to do with the cat if they could get 
him, so he asked, " What do you want to do 
wid him, sir ? " 

" Oh, we 're not going to hurt him — we only 
want to take him inside because he is orange 
and black — Princeton colors, you know." 

" Take Princeton inside ! " exclaimed Tom, 
" and not me ? Oh, no, sir ! " 

" What do you mean ? " cried one of the 
men impatiently. " Of course we don't need 
you. What should we take you for ? — we only 
want the cat." 

" I would n't sell the cat, sir. Princeton, he 
can't go widout me," answered Tom to this, 
pluckily. And then his heart began to beat, 
thump ! thump ! What if they should take him ? 

Here was a dilemma for the Princeton men. 
With the impulsiveness of young men, they 
had set their hearts on having that orange- 
and-black cat on their coach during the foot- 
ball game. It would be such a mascot ! But 
here was this stubborn boy who would not let 
his pet go without him. They looked at Tom, 
and then at one another. Then, by a com- 
mon impulse, they all looked at the last seat 
on the drag, which was occupied by the two 
footmen only. 

" We might put the kid in there," suggested 
one of them. 

" We don't want the boy ! " exclaimed another. 
But then he looked at Tom, and on Tom's face 
he saw an expression of great firmness. He 
saw something else, too — a look so eager and 
wistful that involuntarily his own expression 

" Oh, well," he said, relenting, " if we can't 
have the cat without the boy, we '11 have to 
take the boy, I suppose. What do you say, 
fellows ? " 

" Oh, let him come ! " cried the host of the 
party, impatiently. li Come, youngster, climb 
up, then, and hurry about it! We can't stay 
here all day — we 're late now." 

So Tom, hardly able to realize his good for- 
tune, actually climbed up and took his seat 
upon that wonderful coach, at which, only five 
minutes before, he had been gazing as at some- 
thing as far beyond him as a slice of the moon 
would have been. And now he was there, with 
all these jolly young gentlemen; and, more than 
all, he was actually going inside the gates of the 
Manhattan Field, where the football game 
would soon be played before his enraptured 

And, sure enough, so it was, though it seemed 
too good to be true. The coach, with Tom on 

.8 9 5.; 



it, was driven in, and was stopped in one of the 
best positions from which to see the game; and 
there Tom sat, blissfully happy, during all the 
time that the match was going on. The men 
around him talked excitedly of flying wedges, 
punts, touch-downs, and other mysteries ; and 
at any point, whether 
small or great, scored 
by their college, they 
yelled and cheered in 
the wildest manner. 
Tom cheered with all 
his might when the 
others did ; and as he 
sat there, his eager 
little face all flushed 
with pleasure and ex- 
citement, many a sym- 
pathizing glance was 
thrown in his direc- 
tion, and many a spec- 
tator nudged his neigh- 
bor and remarked, 
" Look at the funny 
little chap up there on 
that drag." 

As for Princeton, he 
was second only to the 
elevens themselves in 
the interest and atten- 
tion which he excited. 
His very first appear- 
ance on the ground 
was greeted by a 
chorus of cheers and 
shouts and laughter from all 
the friends of Princeton Col- 
lege who were anywhere near the 
coach; and from that time until 
the game was over, the gay party 
on the drag was surrounded by an admir- 
ing crowd, among whom Tom's cat was the 
center of attraction. Tom himself was the 
subject of any amount of good-natured chaff 
and banter, but he objected to it as little as 
Princeton objected to the attention which he 
received ; neither boy nor cat was ever in such 
a position before, and probably neither would 
ever be in such again ; and the boy, at least, 
appreciated his privileges to the utmost. 

But perhaps the crowning moment of all that 
joyful day was that in which Tom, on his lofty 
perch, was recognized by his brothers, Jim and 
Charlie. It was just after the game was over, 
and the crowds were pouring toward the gates, 
— to avoid the coming great crush, — and the 


drag on which Tom still sat, holding Prince- 
ton, was being driven briskly through the mass 
and tangle of other carriages which were hurry- 
ing to get out. Then, just as Tom's party 
was almost at the gate, Tom, looking down, 
saw his brothers, and at the same moment 
they saw him. They would hardly have be- 
lieved that the boy in that exalted position 
was really little Tom if they had not seen the 
cat ; but that settled the matter — that cat was 

4 6 


Princeton and no other. And so they pushed 
and elbowed their way until they were nearly 
under the wheels of the coach, so eager were 
they to ask Tom how he got there ; and as Tom 
looked down at them, no king on his throne 
ever felt a greater sense of elation and satisfac- 
tion than did Tom. But the boys, when they 
reached the drag, were, after all, too much in awe 
of those magnificent flunkies on the seat with 
Tom to ask any questions. They decided to wait, 
in the mean time running along by the side of 
the coach until it was beyond the gates. There 
it stopped; and Tom, after a few eager thanks 
to his hosts, and many laughing good-bys from 
the young men, descended from his dizzy 
height, and was once more on the ground. Jim 

and Charlie rushed up to him at once ; and 
then questions and answers fairly flew back and 
forth between Tom and his brothers till the 
whole history of the adventure had been told. 

At its finish Jim drew a long breath and 
looked at Tom with shining eyes. 

" Well ! " he exclaimed, " you had the best 
of it, did n't you, young un? How 'd you feel, 
anyway, up there on that coach with all them 
swells around you?" 

"Well," said Tom— "I felt— I felt like a 
fairy story," he declared finally ; and then he 
added, as he hugged his cat more closely, 
"And Princeton was a regular fairy godmother, 
was n't he? No; I '11 tell you what — Prince- 
ton was my Puss in Boots ! " 



By James Otis. 

[Begun in the May number.'] 

Chapter XI. 


Teddy was the first to arrive at the packing- 
case home on the evening of the robbery ; but 
before he had time to get supper — that is, spread 
out in the most tempting array possible the 
provisions he had brought home — a noise near 
the gate told that his partner had come. 

Carrots's face was sadly swollen. He en- 
tered the box, and threw himself down wearily 
in one corner on the pile of straw. 

" Anything else gone wrong ? " Teddy asked 
in a friendly tone, as he lighted another candle 
for the purpose of increasing the cheerfulness 
of the apartment by an extra illumination. 

" Anything wrong ! " Carrots repeated. " I 
should think when a fellow could n't go 'round 
'bout his business without bein' robbed, there 
was a good many things out er the way ! " 

" But, I mean, have you got inter any more 
trouble since then ? " 

" No ; that was enough to last me the rest 
of this week, I guess." 

" Now, see here, Carrots; it does n't do any 
good to go fussin' 'bout that, an' the sooner 
you brace up, the better it '11 be for all hands. 
Skip 's got the money, an' you 've got the 
thumpin', I know ; but you can't change it by 
worryin' an' lookin' so glum." 

" Do you count on a fellow's grinnin' like a 
cat jest 'cause his face is swelled as big as 
a squash ? " Carrots asked dolefully. 

" No ; but I don't count on his thinkin' 'bout 
it all the time. We 've got somethin' else to do 
besides botherin' with Skip Jellison. S'posin' 
you turn to an' give up everything for the next 
month jest to pay him back, an' then do it, 
what have you made ? Why, nothin' at all — 

you 're jest where you are to-day. Now we 've 
got a comfortable place to live in, and money 
enough to feed us for the next two or three 
days, even if we don't do any business; an' 
as good a chance to earn ourselves a stand as 
any other fellows ever had." 

" So you 've laid right down, an' are goin' to 
let them keep that money, are you ? " 

" Well, yes, jest now ; for there 's nothin' else 
we can do. 'Cordin' to my way of thinkin', 
we 've got to keep on workin' an' waitin' till 
the chance comes. Then we '11 lay inter Skip 
as hard as you like ; but I don't see the sense 
of whinin' yet awhile." 

" What 's to prove he won't jump in an' do 
the same thing over ag'in, to-morrow ? " 

" I 've been thinkin' most likely he 'd try the 
game, an' we 'd better stick together. Now, 
here 's my way : in the mornin' you take your 
box, while I tend to the papers, and we '11 go 
right up to City Hall. If he comes there we 
must n't fight him, 'cause we '11 be 'rested ; but 
there 's nothin' '11 prevent our keepin' him off if 
he tries any funny business. I guess it would n't 
be a great while before some one come along 
as a witness on our side. If he fools 'round 
two or three days, tryin' to drive us off, he '11 
get inter trouble, an' we '11 be clear of it." 

The only way in which Carrots's reply to this 
remark can be described is by saying that he 

It was not a groan, neither was it a spoken 
word; but, rather, a general snort of disdain 
for the plan proposed and defiance to the boy 
who had wronged him. 

Teddy's suggestion was so tame and so 
unworthy the cause that Carrots began to 
think he had made a mistake by going into 
business with one who was willing to act so 
cowardly a part. 


that for ? " Carrots 

Teddy understood this quite as well as if his 
companion had given words to the thoughts, 
and, without losing his temper in the slightest 
degree, he asked: " If you don't like that plan, 
what do you want to do ? " 

" Go out an' lambaste Skip ! " 

"All right; there 's nothin' to hinder. Shall 
I stay here, or do you want me to help ? " 

"Well, it looks to 
me as if it was as much 
your fight as mine." 

"Very well; let's go. 
I reckon that we can 
find him somewhere, 
can't we ? " 

" Yes ; he 's 'most 
allers up 'round Grand 
street an' the Bowery." 

" Well," said Teddy, 
"if you 're bound to try 
an' thump Skip, why, 
I 'm with you ; but you 
know as well as I do 
how it '11 turn out. He 
counts on jest what 
you think of doin', an' 
is sure to have his gang 
with him all the time." 

" Then will you do 
jest as I say ? " 

" Right up to the 
dot ! " 

This satisfied Carrots 
to such a degree that 
he immediately cast off 
the look of anger he 
had worn, and began to 
appear more cheerful. 

Carrots had so far 
unbent that he was will- 
ing to discuss the business of the day, and on 
counting the profits it was found that between 
them they had earned eighty-one cents, despite 
the many interruptions and difficulties. 

According to the arrangements previously 
made, Teddy took possession of the funds, 
wrapped the pennies and silver pieces carefully 
in a piece of brown paper, and deposited the 
package in a hiding-place under one of the 
boxes which served them as a home. 

" What are you doin' 
asked in surprise. 

" I don't want to stand any chance of losin' 

" But it 's safer in your pocket than anywhere 

" Not if we meet Skip. In case he an' his 
crowd get the best of us in a row, they '11 be 


sure to do what they did this afternoon, an' we 
must n't lose all the money we 've got." 

Carrots made no reply. 

This preparing for a flogging was not agree- 
able to him, and it is possible he began to 
think that perhaps his scheme for getting even 
was hardly as wise as he had supposed it. 

Teddy deposited the cash where it would 
not be found until after a long and careful 
search, and then, their supper having been fin- 

i8 9S .] 



ished, said : " Now I 'm ready whenever you 
are," and he extinguished one of the candles. 

" It 's no use to go up there so soon," Car- 
rots replied. " We 'd better hold on till he gets 
his supper." 

Teddy made no comment upon this delay of 
justice, but began speaking of the work 
done on the following day, and the probability 
that trouble would ensue, always prefacing his 
remarks with the proviso: 

" If we go out at all to-morrow." 

" What do you keep sayin' that for ? " Car- 
rots finally asked. " Of course we '11 go out 
to-morrow ! " 

" I 've seen the time since I struck this town 
that I could n't get out when I wanted to go, 
an' p'rhaps we shall be in the same fix to-night; 
but if we ain't we '11 dive inter business mighty 

It was some time before Carrots showed the 
slightest disposition to venture forth for the 
purpose of wreaking vengeance. 

Then it could have been observed that he 
was not nearly so eager as when he first came 

Twice he leaped to his feet as if to propose 
that they start, and twice he sat down again. 

One would almost have fancied he was wait- 
ing for Teddy to make the suggestion ; but the 
latter remained silent. 

Then it seemed as if it was absolutely neces- 
sary he should do something, and he said with 
an evident effort : 

" Now, if you 're ready, I reckon we 'd bet- 
ter go." 

"All right," Teddy replied cheerily, as he 
led the way from the packing-cases to the 

Carrots followed at a leisurely pace, and as 
the two walked toward Grand street by way 
of the Bowery, one would have said it was 
Teddy who had insisted on the expedition. 

The nearer they approached the place where 
it was supposed Master Jellison would be found, 
the slower did Carrots walk, and finally, when 
they were yet more than a block away, he 
came to a standstill. 

"What is it?" Teddy asked, knowing full 
well the cause of the halt. 

" I 've been thinkin' p'rhaps it would be bet- 
Vol. XXIII.— 7. 

ter if we did n't go up there to-night. Course 
he 's got his crowd with him, an' they could 
get the best of us." 

" Yes, an' he '11 be in the same fix for the 
next week." 

"Well, I s'pose," Carrots said hesitatingly, 
" we ought ter wait till he thinks we ain't goin' 
to do anything." 

" That 's jest what I proposed, old man, be- 
fore we started out; but you seemed to think 
it ought ter be done to-night, an' I was willin' 
to give in." 

'.' I guess I '11 let it go as you say, 'cause it 
would be hard luck for both of us to get 'rested 
and sent up to the Island." 

Now that Carrots had decided on delaying 
his vengeance, he was in the utmost haste to 
get away from the dangerous locality ; for there 
was a chance that his enemy might appear, and 
then perhaps, instead of being revenged, he 
would receive another thrashing. 

With such thoughts in his mind he walked 
rapidly toward his dwelling ; and when they 
were once safely inside the fence, all his former 
good nature appeared to have returned. 

He was the same Carrots as before, and, so 
far as could be seen, the loss of the dollar had 
ceased to trouble him. 

Teddy was not willing that very much time 
should be spent in idle conversation ; he be- 
lieved it necessary they should be at their work 
very early in the morning, and curled himself 
on the bed of straw before the neighboring 
clocks proclaimed the hour of eight. 

When the sun rose once more, and the two 
merchants were preparing for business, Carrots 
no longer entertained ideas of thrashing his 
enemy, but seemed only to fear that he might 
receive further injury at Skip's hands. 

So excessive was his prudence that he did 
not allow himself to stray more than half a 
dozen paces from Teddy's side, no matter what 
business might demand. 

The morning trade opened in the most pros- 
perous fashion, and the partners had already 
sold eight papers and put on four shines, when 
Master Jellison and his companions appeared 
on the scene. 

" Look out for 'em ! " Carrots said nervously. 
" They 're going to make a fuss now, sure." 




" Keep right on with your work, an' don't 
pay any 'tention, no matter what they say," 
Teddy replied; and the three boys who claimed 
the right to control business in that section of 
the city approached until they were offensively 
near those who had been warned to leave town. 

" Did n't you get enough yesterday to serve 
you out ? " Skip asked angrily of Carrots. 

The latter made no reply. 

" I reckon you know what I said 'bout your 
workin' 'roun' here," the bully continued, step- 
ping yet closer, and shaking his fist in Carrots's 

At this point Teddy thought best to inter- 
fere, and, taking the box from his companion's 
hand, he stepped between Carrots and Skip. 

" Now, I 've got somethin' to say in this 
business," he began; "an' I want you to re- 
member it, jest as much as we '11 remember 
what you 've said 'bout our goin'. I came 
down to this town to earn a livin', an' to leave 
other folks alone, same 's I told you over there 
by the fountain. Yesterday you pounded Car- 
rots, an' stole a dollar of my money from him. 
Now do you think I 'm such a chump as to 
stand that ? " 

" Well, why don't you do somethin' 'bout 
it ? " Skip asked with a sneer, as he put him- 
self in an attitude of defense. 

" If you think I 'm so much of a fool as to 
fight you, an' stand the chance of gettin' 'rested, 
while you 're coward enough to run away, it 's 
a mistake, an' the sooner you find it out the 
better. This is what I want ter say, an' I mean 
every word of it. Jest as true as you touch us, 
or interfere in any way, I 'm goin' to that judge 
where I was taken up before, an' have you 
hauled in. You know what that '11 'mount to, 
an' these fellows who are with you stand the 
chance of gettin' the same as you '11 get. 
The judge said that instead of fightin' a boy 
ought to make a complaint to the police, an' 
they 'd see he was taken care of. Now, I 've 
come to this city to stay, an' that 's what I 'm 
goin' to do. If we were out in the country I 'd 
be glad to stand up with you, an' the fellow 
that got the worst of it would have to leave; 
but we 're where the policemen will 'rest us, an' 
I can't 'ford to take chances." 

Teddy spoke in such a decided tone, and 

appeared so determined to insist upon his 
rights, that, perhaps, for the first time in his 
life, Master Jellison was cowed, if not abso- 
lutely frightened. 

He knew only too well that the statements 
made were correct : that he would be punished 
severely by the law for having robbed Carrots, 
and in the bewilderment caused by the bold 
stand Teddy had taken, he retired a few paces 
to consult his friends. 

The boy from Saranac had not said all he 
intended to, and thinking it would be better to 
continue the conversation before the bully had 
time to regain his courage, he continued : 

" I don't want you to think you 're goin' to 
get off with that money, even if we keep quiet 
now. When the time comes right, you '11 pay it 
back to Carrots, or have trouble ; an' I '11 give 
you somewhere 'bout a week to make up your 
mind, 'less you want ter kick up a row now. 
You 'd better sneak off before that policeman 
comes along, for I '11 begin my end of the busi- 
ness by tellin' him the whole story jest as soon 
as he gets here." 

As Teddy spoke he motioned involuntarily 
with his head in the direction of the approach- 
ing officer, and, turning quickly, Skip saw the 
same guardian of the peace who had taken 
Teddy to the station-house. 

It would be awkward for him to remain 
if the true story were to be told, and the bully 
concluded his wisest course was to leave that 
neighborhood at once. 

Therefore he and his friends moved hastily 
away until they were on the opposite side of 
the street, where they could hide themselves be- 
hind the vehicles whenever it became neces- 
sary, and at the same time see all that was 
going on. 

Teddy did not intend to recede one whit 
from the stand he had taken. 

As soon as the policeman came up, he told 
all that had occurred during the previous twenty- 
four hours. 

" So that boy is going to drive you out of 
town, eh ? " the officer said laughingly. 

" No, he is n't goin' to do anything of the 
kind. That 's what he says ; but I 've got 
something to say 'bout it. I can't thump him, 
'cause you '11 'rest me; but the chances are 

i8 9 5] 



he '11 hit me whenever he can. I sha'n't 
stand an' take it a great while, an' that 's 
why I want you to know jest how I 'm fixed." 

" If you don't provoke a quarrel, and he 
makes any trouble, pitch in. Then come to 
me, and I '11 see you through ; but your best 
way would be to enter a complaint against him 
on the charge of stealing money." 

" That 's what I would n't like, 'less I had 
to," Teddy replied. " If he '11 give it back, an' 
I reckon he will before long, that part of it will 
be all right. I 'm a stranger in the city, an' 
don't want to get inter a fuss with the fellows, 
'cause I 've got to work 'longside of 'em ; but 
it stands me in hand to have somebody know 
exactly how things are." 

" Come to me if you get into any trouble, 
providing you keep yourself straight," the offi- 
cer said in a kindly tone as he moved on, and 
from across the street Master Jellison and his 
party noted with no slight uneasiness the ap- 
parently friendly talk between the boy from 
Saranac and the policeman. 

Carrots was undecided as to what might re- 
sult from this bold speech of his partner's. 

During all his experience in the city he had 
never known a newsboy or a bootblack to ap- 
peal to the authorities for protection, and Ted- 
dy's method of taking care of himself rather 
startled him. 

" It '11 make Skip worse 'n ever, I 'm 'fraid," 
he said in a low tone, and Teddy replied : 

" It won't do for him to get very fresh now, 
'cause after he strikes the first blow I 'm goin' 
to pitch in, an' if there ain't too many of his 
gang 'round, you '11 see me lug him into the 

station-house. I don't b'lieve in fightin' where 
there are officers to 'rest you ; but I would n't 
let any fellow get the best of me if I could help 
it, no matter who was in the way. Now we 've 
fixed ourselves, an' the sooner Skip Jellison be- 
gins, the better I '11 like it." 

Carrots gazed with admiration upon his 

He realized that by thus stating his case to 
the policeman, Teddy had put himself in a po- 
sition where it would be safe to defend himself 
against any attack which might be made ; and 
this was certainly much better than Carrots's 
plan of the previous evening, which, fortunately, 
had not been carried into effect. 

"Now get to work, Carrots; we must n't 
let them fellows knock us out of business, for 
we 've got to make more than a dollar to-day." 

Carrots did set to work most vigorously. 

His fear of Skip was quieted to a certain de- 
gree, and he darted here and there without ref- 
erence to his partner's whereabouts, getting 
very much more trade than he would otherwise 
have done, because of the fact that his brother 
bootblacks, and many of their acquaintances in 
the newspaper line, were so busily engaged dis- 
cussing the plan adopted by the boy from Sara- 
nac that they had no time to attend to the 
details of business. 

For at least half an hour Teddy and Carrots 
were the only boys in the immediate vicinity 
who attempted to do any very great amount of 
work, and the result was that, before the clock 
had struck ten, their profits amounted to nearly 
as much as Teddy had expected that they 
would earn during the entire day. 

( To be continued. ) 


By Max Guthrie. 

Such a wee mischievous lassie ! — 

It tries one's patience quite 
To watch the child. She cannot do 

A single thing just right. 
'T is " Kitty, don't say that, dear ! " 
" Oh, Kitty, don't do so ! " 
These are the words that greet her, 
Wherever she may go. 

When, just at dusk, one evening, 

She climbed upon my knee, 
In playful mood I asked her name, 
" Why, Kitty, 'course," said she. 
'Yes, Kitty; — but the rest, dear?" 

She hung her curly head — 
The rogue! — for just a moment; 
Then — "Kitty Don't!" she said. 


By Emma A. Opper. 

Queen Peggy the Seventh sat up 
till late reflecting and cogitating, 
Propped up in her cot 
In her night-cap spruce; 
as was not 
eneral use, 
And she burdened 
the soul of the 
Noble Lord of 
the Candle- 
Stick in 

Queen Peggy the Seventh went to walk 
whenever she took a notion, 
In her purple gown 

And her broidered shawl ; 
But her golden crown 
Had no brim at all, 
And she drove to the end 
of his wits the Lord of 
the Royal Freckle- 



When Peggy the Seventh hemmed her 
frills she met with sore disaster, 
For a thimble she deemed 

Too cumbersome ; 

But she squirmed and she screamed 

When she pricked her thumb — 

And the pages hustled and flew for 

the Lord of the Royal Sticking- 


I i ifiUijIiiill 1 !i Ml 

§M j||ii I 

That Queen Peggy 
the Seventh vex- 
ed the court is 
a reasonable 
She was known 
to be 
A most try- 
ing dame, 
For we 're told 
that she 
Never once 
laid claim 
To the services of 
the Lord of the 
General Com- 
mon Sense and 


(A Story from the Desert.) 
By Henry Willard French. 

LONG desert cara- 
van usually moves 
at night, for vari- 
ous reasons ; to- 
ward morning it is 
very cold on the 
desert, and action 
helps to keep them 
warm, while both 
Arabs and camels 
find the sunshine 
very conducive to 
sleep. Often one 
sees a solitary rider 
asleep upon his camel ; and often, too, the 
camel is as sound asleep. On the Arabian 
desert the writer once passed an entire cara- 
van, in the middle of the afternoon, swing- 
ing and swaying steadily along, though every 
rider and every camel was absolutely sound 
asleep. When they move at night the cara- 
vans are much less likely to be taken by sur- 
prise by the robber bands which infest the 
interiors of all the great deserts. From their 
earliest history, too, the Arabs have been 
wonderful astronomers. A perfect knowledge 
of the stars is inevitable ; and they can guide 
themselves over the beaconless sands much 
better by night than by day. But the chief rea- 
son, after all, for moving at night is that the 
camels, stupid, greedy, and idiotic creatures as 
they are, will not eat in the dark. In short 
journeys it does not matter much, for the 
hump on a camel's back is composed of fat 
stored up in times of plenty, as his stomach 
stores away water, to be used when times are 
hard ; but it takes only a few days to exhaust 
these supplies, and, on long journeys, if they 
move by day they would lose an hour each 
night and morning, while the camels ate their 

food, while when they move at night, the time 
is taken from their rest, instead. It is more 

The grand Mohammedan law of hospitality 
provided the little empty-handed stranger in 
the caravan with food and water. Shelter he 
did not need, beyond the friendly shadow of 
some willing dromedary ; while the utter lack 
of curiosity, so common among his people, as 
far, at least, as questioning is concerned, al- 
lowed the lonely mite, wrapped in the mourn- 
ing sarai, to move on with them practically 
unmolested. He knew it would be so. It is 
the custom of the people. It is always so. 

They all knew very well that if they asked 
Yamoud whence he came, he would say, 
" From the desert." Or if they asked him 
where he went, he would reply, " To the sea." 

They all knew, too, that if they had asked 
even the leader of the caravan precisely the 
same questions, he, too, would have answered 
in the same evasive way. It would have 
amounted to nothing. They would not have 
been any wiser at the end than in the be- 
ginning, so they saved their strength, and did 
not ask at all. 

The very first lesson which an Arab baby 
learns, when he begins to talk, is to keep facts 
to himself. It does not sound very friendly, 
put in that way, but it saves a deal of trouble. 
Foreigners do not understand Arabs. They 
ask them pointed questions, and receive .pecu- 
liar answers. They construe the answers to 
please themselves, and come away to tell the 
world that the Arabs are a nation of liars. 
They are not a nation of liars. Perhaps, if 
they should tell the foreigners to mind their 
own affairs, and let them and theirs alone, the 
foreigners would understand them better. 

At all events, no one thought of questioning 
Yamoud, and the white sarai grew dingy with 
the desert dust, and brown from the soil of the 

rising plain, and torn and ragged in the moun- 
tain passes; and a sorry-looking atom the little 
wanderer was, as, with the very last of the car- 
avan, he entered the massive gate in the great 
stone wall surrounding the City of the Sea. 

There was excitement about the gate as the 
caravan entered. Two white men (the first 
Yamoud had ever seen), in brilliant uniforms 
were posting a glaring notice at the gate.- It 
was blazing with bright colors, to attract at- 
tention, and decorated with the picture of a 
lion, with his mouth wide open, jumping up 
toward something, on one side, and on the 
other, an animal like a horse, though with a 
horn in his forehead, was jumping toward the 
same thing. 

Yamoud looked at the picture for a moment, 
but he did n't think much of it, and was much 
more interested in looking at the white officers. 
He had seen pictures before, at the khan, on 
bales and boxes which caravans were carrying 
from the seaport into the interior. Indeed, he 
had seen that same picture more than once, 
and never thought much of it ; for he knew very 
well that horses and lions did n't eat the same 
things, and that even if they did, and if that 
something in the center was really some strange 
thing which both lions and horses ate, even 
then he knew that the two would never take 
that way of obtaining it. They would stop on 
the ground and fight there, if, indeed, there was 
such a thing as a strange-looking horse with a 
horn in his forehead that would dare to stop 
and fight a lion ; and as sure as fate, the lion 
would conquer, and first eat up the horse, and 
then climb quietly up and eat whatever it was 
on the top of the mound. 

Yamoud could not read a word of the writ- 
ing under the picture, any more than he could 
read the writing around the pictures on the 
boxes that were loaded and unloaded in the 
khan. He had only a general idea that such 
writing never amounted to much, and was pay- 
ing his entire attention to the officers, when 
some one who could read read the notice aloud, 
for the benefit of many who were quite as igno- 
rant as Yamoud ; and as an Arab rarely lets 
anything be said within reach of him without 
hearing it, Yamoud's ears were as open as his 
eyes, and soon his eyes quite forgot what they 


had been doing, while his ears were all that 
there was to him. 

The notice proved to be an offer of a large 
reward for any information that should lead to 
the capture, dead or alive, of a great criminal 
who had been reported as being somewhere in 
that neighborhood. It gave a long description 
of the man, and several names by which he was 
best known. 

Among the names was " Abu'l Hasham." 


When Yamoud heard the name of Abu'l 
Hasham his lips pressed very close together, to 
keep any involuntary word from coming out, 
and he fell back, more and more, as the cara- 
van moved on, till presenfly^he was left behind. 

He did not mind that, for he had nothing 
more to do with the caravan. The question 
of being alone and helpless and of how he was 
to live did not trouble him. It did not even 
occur to him. He was not an adventurer look- 
ing for a fortune. He knew well enough that 
when there was a dire demand for food some 
way would appear for obtaining it. He was 
concerned only about the kismet (mark of fate) 
in his forehead which had brought him there, 
that was so closely associated just now with 
Abu'l Hasham. 

He tried to think, but he was still walking 
along the principal street of the city, to which 
he was little accustomed. He was hustled and 
jostled about and bewildered by such noises 
and confusion as he had not known even in 
the busiest hours of the khan. He was shouted 
at in more languages which he could not un- 
derstand, and pushed out of the way for more 
kinds of people, and more strange things trun- 
dled about on wheels than he supposed could 
be found in all the wide world together. 

There was no such thing as thinking in such 
commotion, and he turned into the first byway, 
and on and on, into narrower and narrower 
alleys, till at last he was almost alone. 

Possibly he was the only one in the city, out- 
side of the slave-collector's own people, who 
knew, to a certainty, that Abu'l Hasham en- 
tered the gate less than twelve hours before. 
He was sure that as soon as the slave-collector 




read those notices he would find some way to 
go out again, and would go as fast and as far 
as possible, when there would be little hope 
that a desert boy could follow him or find him, 
or ever know where to find his mother. 

Common sense told him that whatever he 

proposed to 
do must be 
quickly — but 
there was just 
the rub. He 
did n't know 
what in the 
world to do. 
He had done 
all that heknew 
howtodo when 
he came to the 
City of the Sea. 


He was there. He had accomplished so 
much, and he had not another plan or idea. 
He knew that his mother would be where Abu'l 
Hasham was, and that the only way to look for 
her was to find Abu'l Hasham. He was sure 
that they were both in the city, and that he was 
in the city; but the city was a very different 
place from what he had supposed. It was not 
at all like the town about the khan, where one 
could stand at one gate and see everything 
clear to the other gate, and in ten minutes find 
any one who was inside the walls. 

The great graystone walls of the houses rose 

so close on either side of the alley that he could 
almost touch the two at once. They rose so 
high that the sun never found its way down to 
the pavement, which was damp and cold and 
slimy — so different from his desert sand. 

It was the first time in his life that he had 
ever been in a city, but Yamoud walked on 
and on without noticing anything, only trying 
to think what he could do and do quickly. 

A water-carrier brushed past him, in the nar- 
row alley, almost knocking him down with a 
rude bump from the dripping water-skin slung 
over one shoulder, — for the alley was hardly 
wide enough for a boy and a goatskin full of 
water to pass, especially if the goatskin was not 
obliging enough to turn out a little. Yamoud 
looked around indignantly at the carrier, who 
was hooded and cloaked in rags, with bare 
feet, bare arms, and bare legs ; but on second 
thought the boy was more attracted by the 
dripping water-skin. 

In a caravan water is the most precious com- 
modity, and as Yamoud had depended upon 
charity for everything, he had never asked for 
water when he could help it; which meant not 
more than twice in twenty- four hours, notwith- 
standing the parching, burning sun and sand. 

The patient endurance of thirst is a faculty 
marvelously developed in every desert Arab, 
and to admit of weakness in this is almost 
as bad as being a coward. But the sight of 
the water-skin reminded Yamoud that he had 
reached a city, and that one of the chief things 
which the children of the desert were taught 
was that there was no end of water there. It 
made him realize that he was very thirsty, and 
he called after the carrier to give him a drink. 

He was sure that the man heard him, but he 
hurried on without paying the least attention. 
The great desert code of hospitality was outraged 
by such an act. Yamoud's blood rose, and he 
called again, indignantly, and started and ran after 
the man, catching him, at last, by his ragged 
girdle, an act which a Mussulman would hardly 
dare to disregard, — if any one was looking on, 
at least, — and repeated in a shrill, angry voice : 

"Water! Water! In the name of Allah give 
me water ! " 

With a savage grunt the carrier stopped, 
filled a gourd with water, and handed it to 

i8 9 S-] 



Yamoud who drank it after the Arab fashion, 
throwing back his head, opening his mouth 
and pouring the water into it from the gourd 
held almost as high as he could reach. 

In this position his eyes looked up under the 
cffie, or head-dress, that was pulled well down 
over the water-carrier's face, and rested on a 
scar — the scar which he saw in the desert khan 
as he looked up into the face of the Moor who 
was purchasing his mother's fruit. 

Even then, with the ever-ready self-control 

snatched from his hand, and saw the carrier 
hurry on. 

For a moment little Yamoud stood there, 
motionless and dumb. Could any child of the 
desert have stood all alone looking into the 
face of Abu'l Hasham without terror ? In a 
moment, however, he had gathered himself to- 
gether enough, at least, to realize that in the 
disguise of a water-carrier the Terror of the Des- 
ert was stealing through those narrow alleys in- 
tending to make his escape from the city. 


of his nation, the little fellow did not so much 
as stop drinking lest he should betray some- 
thing. He finished his drink, whispered the 
Mohammedan form of thanksgiving, not to the 
carrier but to Allah, for water, felt the gourd 
Vol. XXIII.— 8. 

So far as the 
notices were con- 
cerned they were 
no affair of Ya- 
moud's. The only 
importance they had to him was in the 
thought that they would frighten Abu'l 
Hasham away. Now they had frightened 
him, and he was going. For the officers who 
wanted to capture Hasham, and for the reward 
they offered for his betrayal, Yamoud cared 
nothing at all. Instinctive opposition to the 
white race would have led him, as it would 
have led any of his people, to aid the man's 
escape. But Abu'l Hasham must not escape — 
not till Yamoud had found his mother. If 
the boy lost sight of him he would escape. He 
must not lose sight of the water-carrier. 



Only this one thought possessed Yamoud, and, 
frightened as he was, he fastened two bright 
eyes on the retreating figure and hurried to get 
nearer to it. 

The man walked rapidly on, and Yamoud more 
than once thought that a sudden turn had hid- 
den him forever. As they twisted about through 
the alleys it began to appear to Yamoud how 
utterly helpless he was. A dozen times he 
thought he had lost the man, and when the 
carrier came in sight again what good did it do ? 
What good could it ever do ? The man would 
surely escape him in the end — and even if he did 
not escape, what was Yamoud accomplishing ? 

While he was dodging along, filled with these 
troubled thoughts, with his eyes fixed on the 
figure of the Moor, he ran straight into one of 
the officers who had been standing by the notice 
at the gate. The officer shook him off, roughly 
enough, but an idea came suddenly to Yamoud. 
He knew that those two men wanted to cap- 
ture Abu'l Hasham, and that they, at least, were 
strong enough to keep him from running away. 
He wondered he had not thought of that before. 

He could not speak a word of anything but 
Arabic, but catching the arm that was shaking 
him he spoke one word which both officers 
understood. It was " Hasham!" 

Then breaking away he started on a run down 
the alley, for the water-carrier was losing no 
time, and Yamoud did not propose to lose him, 
whether the officers would understand and help 
or not. 

Fortunately they did understand and followed 
him and in a short time the water-carrier was a 
prisoner, bound and chained, fully identified as 
Abu'l Hasham and waiting trial for his crimes. 
And Yamoud was carried in great triumph to 
the highest authorities as the boy who had won 
the reward. 

They counted out more gold than the entire 
value of Mutah and the town about the khan 
combined, and told Yamoud that it was his. 

He only looked at it a moment and then 
shook his head as he turned away. 

" I don't want it," he said to the Arab inter- 
preter. " I did n't come out of the desert for 
gold. I came for my mother, who was stolen 
in the night and brought here yesterday by 
Abu'l Hasham, with his caravan of slaves. I 
want him to tell me where he has left the slaves 
he stole, and then you can let him go. I don't 
want the gold." 

If they had questioned Yamoud outright they 
would never have learned all this, for it would 
not have been natural for him to answer ; but 
his little heart was about ready to break when 
he found that all he had accomplished was to 
put Abu'l Hasham further out of his reach than 
ever, and so he told his sad plight before he 

It was most important news to the officers. 
It was at the time when the combined nations 
were exerting their utmost strength to put down 
the slave-trade, and the discovery that a great 
caravan of slaves had been brought in only the 
day before was almost as important as the cap- 
ture of Abu'l Hasham himself. 

They were not long in discovering the slaves, 
and in arresting those in charge of them who 
had not already run away. Then Yamoud was 
taken in among the captives to find his mother 
and the rest of the people of Mutah, and to tell 
them they were free. 

Oh, how they shouted for him when they 
heard it all and knew who had done it ! How 
Umda clasped her son to her breast; and then 
she had to lift him to her shoulder and hold 
him where they all could see, while they hailed 
him the Hero of the Desert ! And the money he 
had earned he gave to fitting out a caravan to 
take all of the captives back again, over the 
mountains, to their desert homes. 

That the story is true any one will testify who 
has ever camped for a day at a desert khan 
along the trail between Algiers and Timbuctoo, 
and heard the tale they are always telling of the 
boy who was made the chief of Mutah before 
he could lift a lance, and whose name was 
Yamoud ebno'l Ahmad. 


By Laurence Hutton. 

It was Dr. John 
Brown of Edin- 
boro', I think who 
spoke in sincere 
sympathy of the 
man who " led a 
dog-less life." It 
was Mr. "Josh Bil- 
lings," I know, 
■■mop." who said that in 

the whole history 
of the world there is but one thing that money 
cannot buy, to wit : the wag of a dog's tail. 
And it was Professor John C. Van Dyke who 
declared the other day, in reviewing the artistic 
career of Landseer, that he made his dogs too 
human. It was the great Creator himself who 
made dogs too human — so human that some- 
times they put humanity to shame. 

I have been the friend and confidant of three 
dogs, who helped to humanize me for the space 
of a quarter of a century, and who had souls 
to be saved, I am sure; and when I cross the 
Stygian river, I expect to find on the other 
shore a trio of dogs wagging their tails almost 
off in their joy at my coming, and with honest 
tongues hanging out to lick my hands and my 
feet. And then I am going, with these faithful, 
devoted dogs at my heels, to talk dogs over 
with Dr. John Brown, Sir Edwin Landseer, and 
Mr. Josh Billings. 

My first dog, " Whiskie," was an alleged Skye 
terrier, coming, alas ! from a clouded, not a 

clear, sky. He had the most beautiful and the 
most perfect head I ever saw on a dog, but his 
legs were altogether too long; and the rest of 
him was — just dog. He came into the family 
in 1867 or 1868. He was, at the beginning, 
not popular with the seniors; but he was so 
honest, so ingenuous, so "square," that he made 
himself irresistible, and he soon became even 
dearer to my father and my mother than he was 
to me. Whiskie, I am sorry to say, was not an 
amiable character, except to his own people. 
He hated everybody else, he barked at every- 
body else, and sometimes he bit everybody else 
— friends of the household as well as the 
butcher-boys, the baker-boys, and the bor- 
rowers of money who came to the door. He 
had no discrimination in his likes and dislikes, 
and naturally he was not popular, except 
among his own people. He hated all cats 
but his own cat, by whom he was bullied in a 
most outrageous way. Whiskie had the sense 
of shame and the sense of humor. 

One warm summer evening, we were all sit- 
ting on the front steps, after a refreshing shower 
of rain, when Whiskie saw a cat in the street, 
picking its dainty way among the little puddles 
of water. With a muttered curse, he dashed 
after the cat without discovering, until within 
a few feet of it, that it was the cat who belonged 
to him. He tried to stop himself in his im- 
petuous career, put on all his brakes, literally 
skimming along the street railway-track as if he 
was out simply for a slide, passing the cat, who 




gave him a half-contemptuous, half-pitying look, 
and then, after inspecting the sky to see if the 
rain was really over and how the wind was, he 
came back to his place between my father and 
myself as if it was all a matter of course and of 
every-day occurrence. But he knew we were 
laughing at him ; and if ever a dog felt sheep- 
ish, and looked sheepish — if ever a dog said, 


" What an idiot I 've made of myself! " Whiskie 
was that dog. 

Whiskie was fourteen or fifteen years of age 
in 1882, when my mother went to join my 
father, and I was taken to Spain by a good 
aunt and cousins. Whiskie was left at home to 
keep house with the two old servants who had 
known him all his life, and were in perfect sym- 
pathy with him. He had often been left alone 

before during our frequent journeyings about 
the world, the entire establishment being kept 
running purely on his account. Usually he 
did not mind the solitude; he was well taken 
care of in our absence, and he felt that we 
were coming back some day. This time he 
knew it was different. He would not be con- 
soled. He wandered listlessly and uselessly 
about the house; into 
my mother's room, into 
my room ; and one 
morning he was found 
in a dark closet, where 
he had never gone be- 
fore, dead — of a broken 

He had only a stump 
of a tail, but he will 
wag it — when next I 
see him. 

The second dog was 
"Punch," — a perfect, 
thoroughbred Dandie 
Dinmont, and the most 
intelligent, if not the 
most affectionate, of 
the lot. Punch and I 
kept house together for 
a year or two, and alone. 
He was my only com- 
panion. The first thing 
in the morning, the last 
thing at night, Punch 
was in evidence. He 
came to the door to see 
me safely off; he was 
sniffing at the inside of 
the door the moment 
my key was heard in 
the latch, no matter 
how late at night; and 
so long as there was light enough he watched 
for me out of the window. Punch, too, had a 
cat — a son, or a grandson, of Whiskie's cat. 
Punch's favorite seat was a chair in the front 
basement. Here, for hours, he would look out 
at the passers-by — indulging in the study of 
man, the proper study of his kind. The chair 
was what is known as " cane-bottomed," and 
through its perforations the cat was fond of 





tickling Punch, as he 
sat. AVhen Punch felt 
that the joke had been 
carried far enough, he 
would rise in his wrath, 
chase the cat out into 
the kitchen, around 
the back yard, into 
the kitchen again, and 
then, perhaps, have it 
out with the cat under 
the sink — without the 
loss of a hair, the use 
of a claw, or an angry 
spit or snarl. Punch 
and the cat slept to- 
gether, and dined to- 
gether, in utter har- 
mony ; and I have 
often gone up to my 
own bed, after a soli- 
tary cigar, and left 
them purring and 
snoring in each other's 
arms. They assisted 
at each other's toilets, 
washed each other's 
faces, and once, when 
I asked Mary Cook 
what was the matter 

with Punch's eye, she said : " I think, sir, that 
the cat must have put her finger in it, when she 
combed his bang." Punch loved everybody. 
He seldom barked; he never bit; he cared 
nothing for clothes, or style, or for social sta- 
tion. He was just as cordial to the beggar as 
he would have been to a king ; and I have 
often thought that if thieves came to break in 
and steal, Punch, in his unfailing, hospitable 
amiability, would have escorted them through 
the house, and shown them where the treasures 
were kept. All the children were fond of Punch, 
who accepted mauling as did no dog before. I 
could carry him up-stairs by the tail, without a 
murmur of anything but satisfaction on his part ; 
and one favorite performance of ours was an ama- 
teur representation of" Daniel in the Lions' Den," 
Punch being all the animals; I, of course, be- 





ing the Prophet himself. The struggle for mas- 
tery was something awful. I seemed to be torn 
limb from limb, Punch roaring like a thousand 
lions, and treating me as tenderly as if I were 
a sucking dove. This entertainment — when- 
ever I had young people at the house — was 
of nightly occurrence, and always repeatedly 
encored. Punch, however, never cared to 
play Lion to the Daniel of anybody else. 

One of Punch's expressions of poetic affec- 
tion is still preserved by a little girl who is now 
grown up, and has little girls of her own. It was 
attached to a Christmas gift, a locket contain- 
ing a scrap of blue-gray wool. And here it is : 

Punch Hutton is ready to vow and declare 
That his friend Milly Barrett 's a brick. 
He begs she '11 accept of this lock of his hair, 
And he sends her his love — and a lick. 

Punch died very suddenly ; poisoned, I am 
afraid, by somebody whom he never injured. 
He never injured a living soul ! And when 
Mary Cook dug a hole, by the side of Whiskie's 
grave, one raw afternoon, and put Punch in it, 
I am not ashamed to say that I shut myself in 
my own room, threw myself on my bed, and 
cried as I have not cried since they took my 
mother away from me. 

We went abroad for a year's stay after Punch 
died, and rented our house to good people, 
whom I have never forgiven for one thing. 
They buried a dog of their own in my family 
plot in the back yard, and under the ailantus- 
tree which shades the graves of my cats and 
my dogs; and I feel that they have profaned 
the hallowed spot. 

" Mop " was the third and the last of the trio 
of dogs, and he came to me like the Quality 
of Mercy. A day or two after the death of 
Punch, and while I was still unreconciled to 
my loss, I chanced to dine with a friend who 
noticed the trappings and the suits of woe which 
I wore in my face, and asked the cause. He 
had in his stable a Dandie, the very counterpart 
of Punch, whom he had not seen, or thought 
of, for a month at least. Would I like to look 
at him ? I would like to look at any dog who 
looked like the companion who had been taken 
from me ; and a call through a speaking-tube 
brought into the room, head over heels, with 

all the wild impetuosity of his race, Punch per- 
sonified, his ghost embodied, his twin brother. 
The same long, lithe body, the same short legs 
(the fore legs shaped like a capital S), the same 
short tail, the same hair dragging the ground, 
the same beautiful head, the same wistful, 
expressive eye, the same cool, insinuating nose. 
The new-comer raced around the table, passing 
his master unnoticed, and not a word was 
spoken. Then this Dandie cut a sort of double 
pigeon-wing, gave a short bark, put his crooked, 
dirty little feet on my knees, insinuated his cool 
and expressive nose into my unresisting hand, 
and wagged his stump of a tail with all his 
loving might. It was the longed-for touch of a 
vanished paw, the lick of a tongue that was still. 
He was unkempt, uncombed, uncared for, but 
he was another Punch, and he knew me. If 
that was my dog he would not live forgotten in 
a stable : he would take the place in the so- 
ciety to which his birth and his evident breed- 
ing entitled him, was my remark, and Mop 
regretfully went back to his stall. 

The next morning, early, he came into my 
study, combed, kempt, cared-for, to a superla- 
tive degree; with a note in his mouth signifying 
that his name was Mop and that he was mine. 
He was mine and I was his, as long as he lived : 
some ten happy years for both of us. Without 
Punch's phenomenal intelligence he had many 
of Punch's ways, and all of Punch's trust and 
affection ; and, like Punch, he was never so 
superlatively happy as when he was roughly 
mauled and pulled about by his tail. When by 
chance he was shut out in the back yard, he 
knocked with his tail on the door; he squirmed 
his way into the heart of Mary Cook in the first 
ten minutes, and in half an hour he was on 
terms of the most affectionate friendship with 
Punch's cat. 

Mop had absolutely no sense of fear or of 
animal proportions. As a catter he was never 
equaled, and he has been known to attack 
dogs seven times as big as himself. He learned 
nothing by experience : he never knew when 
he was thrashed. The butcher's dog at On- 
teora whipped, and bit, and chewed him into 
semi-helpless unconsciousness three times a 
week for four months, one summer; and yet 
Mop, half paralyzed, bandaged, soaked in 


Pond's Extract, unable to hold up his head 
to respond to the greetings of his own family, 
speechless for hours, was up and about and 
ready for another fray and another chewing 
the moment the butcher's dog, unseen, un- 
scented by the rest of the household, appeared 
over the brow of the hill. 

The only creature by whom Mop was ever 
really overcome was a black-and-white, common, 
every-day, garden skunk. He treed this unex- 
pected visitor on the wood-pile one famous 
moonlight night in Onteora. And he acknow- 
ledged his defeat at once, and like a man. He 
realized fully his unsavory condition. He re- 
tired to a far corner of the small estate, and for 
a week, prompted only by his own instinct, he 
kept to the leeward of Onteora society. 

To go back a little. Mop was the first per- 
son who was told of my engagement, and he 
was the first to greet the wife when she came 
home, a bride, to his own house. He had been 
made to understand, from the beginning, that 
she did not like dogs — in general. And he set 
himself out to please, and to overcome the un- 
spoken antagonism. He had a delicate part to 
play, and he played it with a delicacy and a 
tact which rarely have been equaled. He did 
not assert himself; he kept himself in the back- 
ground ; he said little ; his approaches at first 
were slight and almost imperceptible, but he was 
always ready to do, or to help, in an unaggressive 
way. He followed her about the house, up-stairs 
and down-stairs, and he looked and waited. 
Then he began to sit on the train of her gown ; 
to stand as close to her as was fit and proper ; 
once in a while to jump upon the sofa beside 
her, or into the easy-chair behind her, winking 
at me, from time to time, in his quiet way. 

And at last he was successful. One dreary 
winter, when he suffered terribly from inflam- 
matory rheumatism, he found his mistress mak- 
ing a bed for him by the kitchen fire, getting 
up in the middle of the night to go down to 
look after him, when he uttered in pain the 
cries he could not help. And when a bottle of 
very rare old brandy, kept by me for some extra- 
ordinary occasion of festivity, was missing, I was 
informed that it had been used in rubbing Mop ! 

Mop's personal history I never learned. 
Told once that he was the purest Dandie in 


America, and asked his pedigree, I was moved 
to look into the matter of his family tree. It 
seems that a certain sea-captain was commis- 
sioned to bring back to this country the best 
Dandie to be had in all Scotland. He sent 
his quartermaster to find him, and the quarter- 
master found Mop under a private carriage, in 
Argyle street, Glasgow, and brought him on 
board. That is Mop's pedigree. 

Mop died of old age and of a complication 
of diseases, in the spring of 1892. He lost his 
hair, he lost his teeth, he lost everything but 
his indomitable spirit ; and when almost on the 
brink of the grave, he stood in the back yard 
for eight hours in a March snow-storm, motion- 
less, and watching a great black cat on the 
fence, whom he hypnotized, and who finally 
came down to be killed. The cat weighed 
more than Mop did, and was very gamy. And 
the encounter nearly cost me a lawsuit. 

This was Mop's last public appearance. He 
retired to his couch before the kitchen range, 
and gradually and slowly he faded away before 
our eyes ; amiable, unrepining, devoted to the 
end. A consultation of doctors showed us that 
his case was hopeless, and Mop was condemned 
to be carried off to be killed humanely by the 
society founded by Mr. Bergh, where without 
cruelty they end the sufferings of animals. Mop 
had not left his couch for weeks. I spoke to 
him about it, with tears in my eyes, one night. 
I said : " To-morrow must end it, old friend. 
'T is for your sake and your relief. It almost 
breaks my heart, old friend. But there is an- 
other and a better world — even for dogs, old 
friend. And for old acquaintance' sake, and 
for old friendship's sake, I must have you sent 
on ahead of me, old friend." 

The next morning, when I came down to 
breakfast, there by the empty chair sat Mop. 
How he got himself up the stairs nobody knows. 
But there he was, and the society which a good 
man founded saw not Mop that day. 

The end came soon afterward. And Mop 
has gone on to join Whiskie and Punch in 
their waiting for me. How they can agree with 
one another I do not know ; they never agreed 
with any dogs in this world. But that they are 
waiting together, all three of them, for me, and 
in harmony, I am perfectly sure. 


By T. T. Trowbridge. 


Chapter I. 

GID ketterell's charge. 

On the outskirts of the village a little brook 
came gurgling down from the hills, gossiping 
among boulders and loitering in pools, light- 
stepping and blithe as a school-girl. It lin- 
gered a long while under a cool bridge, where 
its sandy channel was crossed by the village 
street, then went tripping and singing onward 
to the river, less than a quarter of a mile 

Just above the bridge and a little back from 

the street, with only the brook and its shady 
banks between them, were two as pleasant rural 
homes as you will find anywhere in a day's 
drive among New England suburbs. The one 
on the left (as you looked over at them from 
the bridge) was the old parsonage: a plain 
three-gabled white house, with a broad porch, 
a pretty garden of shrubbery and fruit-trees, a 
grassy front yard, and a background of wooded 
hillsides. This had been the home of the best 
beloved minister the parish had ever had, until 
his death two or three years before ; it was still 
occupied by his widow, Mrs. Lisle, and their 


three children, and the present minister, a young 
bachelor, boarded with her. 

The residence on the right (you are still 
looking from the bridge) was more modern 
and much more pretentious. It was painted 
in soft contrasting buff and brown colors ; it 
had imposing piazzas, bay windows and tur- 
rets, and large plate-glass panes, through which, 
when the Melvertons were at home and the 
house was open, you had charming glimpses of 
rich draperies. 

But it was often closed in summer. Why 
anybody should wish to leave so lovely a coun- 
try-home in the loveliest season of the year, 
was a mystery to many people. But Mrs. 
Melverton (she also was a widow) thought a 
change desirable for her children and espe- 
cially for herself; and punctually on the fifth 
day of July of every year (the boys stayed for 
the boat-races on the Fourth) the house was 
shut up, and the family went off to spend a 
few weeks at the seaside. 

Again this year, on the forenoon of the fifth, 
a wagon-load of family trunks was sent off early 
to be forwarded by rail, accompanied by the 
second son and two servants, who were to 
open the seaside cottage. Mrs. Melverton de- 
parted soon after, in her own carriage with 
the younger children, while Fred, the oldest 
son, was left to lock up the house and follow 
on his bicycle. 

Fred had gone through the upper chambers, 
and at last stood before the sideboard in the 
dining-room, looking intently at a gold-lined 
silver goblet held in his hand : a beautiful prize 
which he had won in a race on the river the 
day before. It bore an engraved inscription 
commemorating the event, with a blank left 
for the insertion of the winner's name. 

" I ought to have had this sent to the en- 
graver's, after bringing it home to show to 
the family," he said to himself; " or I should 
have packed it for the beach. I don't like to 
take it on my ' safety ' for an eighteen-mile run." 

Perceiving a movement behind him, he 
turned and saw a boy, about sixteen years 
old, standing in the open door that led into 
the back entry. This was Gideon Ketterell 
(commonly called Gid), who was to be left in 
charge of the house, and to whom the young 
Vol. XXIII.— 9. 


master had been giving instructions as to the 
care of it. Fred had not intended to exhibit 
the cup, and he was about to slip it quietly out 
of sight, when, reflecting that Gideon had prob- 
ably noticed it in his hand, he concluded it 
would be better to take the boy a little into 
his confidence. 

" Have you seen this, Gid ? " he asked, 
holding it up in the light that came through 
the lace draperies of a window the blinds of 
which were still open. 

" I saw it when it was presented on the boat- 
house float yesterday," the boy replied, ap- 
proaching, as it was extended for his inspection. 
" The fellows all envied you then, I tell you ! " 
he exclaimed, with a grin of bashful admiration. 
" Splendid, ain't it ? " 

" It will do," said young Melverton, with 
quiet satisfaction. " You can go now. I '11 
meet you outside." 

He did n't care to be seen locking the cup 
in the sideboard drawer. Yet the boy might 
have observed what was done with it if he had 
had the curiosity to turn in the dim entry, and 
look back through the half-open door. That 
Gid Ketterell was not altogether lacking in that 
very human trait will be shown in the course 
of our story. 

The young master presently went out by 
the front door, taking the key with him, while 
Gid made his exit by a rear door, walked 
around the house, and met him at the foot of 
the piazza steps. 

" Well, Gideon," Fred Melverton said, stand- 
ing beside his shining wheel, — a fine, athletic 
figure, in his dark-gray bicycle cap and suit, — 
"you have your key, and I have mine, and 
now I am off. You think you understand 
everything I have told you ? " 

" I guess so," Gideon replied earnestly. 

In a few minutes he would be left in a po- 
sition of responsibility and advantage to which 
he had looked forward with anxious joy and 
pride ; and now, at the last moment, he felt his 
heart beat with repressed excitement. 

He had a good-natured face, a short nose 
with uptilted nostrils, a weak nether lip, and 
slouching manners, — all in singular contrast with 
the clear-cut features and resolute mien of the 
trim young prize-winner who stood before him. 




" — If I don't forget," the boy added, feeling 
the other's keen blue eyes upon him. 

" You must rit forget. One thing particularly. 
You 're a good boy, Gideon, as your mother 
says, if you only keep free from bad influences. 
There 's a certain class of boys that must n't 
come about this place while you are here. I 
don't mean such boys as Tracy Lisle ; the more 
you see of young fellows like him the better." 

" But he does n't care to see much of me," said 
Gideon, with a sheepish hanging of the head. 

" I 'm afraid that 's more your fault than his," 
Fred Melverton replied. " It is because you 
see too much of the other class of boys. 
I mean those that take Oscar Ordway for a 
leader. Oscar, especially, you are to steer clear 
of. Have nothing whatever to say to him if 
he comes about the place. I suppose it is 
hardly necessary I should charge you to let 
nobody into the house unless he brings an order 
from my mother or me." 

" Of course I should know enough for that," 
Gideon replied, with a foggy sort of smile 
playing about his irresolute mouth. 

" Of course ! " the young proprietor repeated. 
" Good-by ! " 

And, with a farewell wave of the hand, he 
remounted his wheel, and sped swiftly away. 
The boy's face brightened. 

" I 'm master now," he said aloud ; " and 
I 've got a snap ! " 

Chapter II. 


He said that to himself two or three times 
on his way home to dinner, he said it to boys 
he met in the village, and he said it to his 
mother, whom he found hanging clothes on a 
line in the back-yard. 

His father also overheard the remark as he 
sat on a bench by the shed door, smoking 
his pipe, with his feet on a box ; but it was n't 
meant for him. " Old man Ketterell " did n't 
count for much in his own household. 

The mother was a woman-of-all-work who 
was very favorably regarded in the village for 
her excellent washing and ironing and scrub- 
bing, for her stout frame and her equally stout 

integrity, and for her tireless energy in supporting 
her family of four children, as well as the hus- 
band and father, who (as she herself declared, 
from bitter knowledge of the fact) was " too 
shif'less to breathe." She was of Irish parent- 
age; and it was thought that Ketterell, who 
came of a good American family, sunk pretty 
low in the social scale when he married her. 
But now people wondered how low he w-ould 
have sunk if she had n't (so to speak) kept his 
nose above water. 

He got the nickname of " old man " Ket- 
terell before he was forty, by which time he had 
contentedly settled down into a state of shame- 
less dependence upon her industry. He was 
always " waiting for a job " ; while for her 
jobs were always waiting — sometimes weeks 
ahead. She had red arms, greenish eyes, and 
tawny hair combed straight back over her 
head and down her neck. 

The greenish eyes gave Gideon a contemp- 
tuous flash as he came bragging into the yard. 

" A snap, is it ? " she cried, stooping for a 
clothes-pin. " That 's your notion of exerting 
yourself to gain an honest living, as it has been 
your father's notion before you ! " 

Old man Ketterell took his pipe from his 
mouth with a scowling grimace, as if minded to 
answer the taunt, but merely changed the po- 
sition of his legs on the box, sighed resignedly, 
and put his pipe back again. Mrs. Ketterell 
usually governed her domestic realm with ex- 
emplary patience and benevolence ; but when 
there were signs of these fine qualities be- 
coming overstrained, it was the part of wisdom 
(as the easy-going old man used to say) " to 
stand from under." 

"A mighty poor notion it is!" she went 
on, pinning a wet garment to the sagging line, 
" — the worst possible way to take advantage 
of a chance that has come to you as this one 
has. Hold up that pail of clo'es-pins for 
me, will you ? Don't be so tender of your own 
precious back, when you see me tugging and 
straining as I am now." 

Gideon obeyed meekly. 

" You are to have five dollars a week, with- 
out an employer's eyes to keep ye straight," 
she continued. " You can do much, or you 
can do little, according to your conscience : 



6 7 

make an honest job of it, earn your wages, and 
be gaining a good character into the bargain ; 
or you can make a snap of it, slight your work, 
and begin investing your youth in the rotten 
bank your father has been putting his capital 
into all his life, with the results you know." 

Gideon cast a glance over the pan of clothes- 
pins in the direction of his easy-going parent, 
who, I regret to say, gave him an indulgent 

" But let me tell you one thing most em- 
phatically ! " she added, standing with a wet 
and wrinkled skirt half unfolded on her hands. 
" If you misbehave in the matters the Mel- 
vertons have intrusted you with, out of the pure 
kindness of their hearts, and their respect for 
your hard-working parent — everybody knows 
which parent that is ! — if you fool away your 
chance, or come out of it with a bad name, 
I promise you such a whaling as you have n't 
enjoyed the blessing of for many a day ! " 

Gideon looked hard at the clothes-pins, and 
waited for the squall to blow over. She re- 
sumed : 

" I 'm minded to administer it to you now, 
at the outset, to make sure of your excellent 
conduct. There 's nothing under the broad 
canopy so wholesome and improving to you as 
a smart walloping. It corrects your bad ten- 
dencies, and just fills you up with goodness for 
a month or two. It 's a sort of discipline that 
would work well, too, in another case I might 
mention; for I can see him nodding and wink- 
ing at you now, through his everlasting pipe 
smoke ! " 

Old man Ketterell stopped signaling in- 
stantly, and looked discreetly serious; there 
being perhaps some grounds for the popular 
belief that the strong-armed washerwoman 
could handle her husband as a cat tosses a 
mouse, and that she had been known to do it 
at times of extreme provocation. 

"What do you say for yourself — you son 
of y.our father, every inch of you ? " she de- 
manded, poising the last of the clothes-pins. 

" Of course I 'm going to do my best," said 
Gideon, as if he meant it; and no doubt he 
did mean it sincerely at the moment, with the 
green fire of his mother's menacing eyes flash- 
ing down upon him. 

Her manner changed in an instant; the stern 
features softened. 

"That 's what I 've been waiting for you 
to say; and now if you '11 pledge yourself to 
keep that good resolution, you may come in to 
dinner; for I see Lucy has got the potatoes 
on the table. The deserving and the unde- 
serving will sit down together," she added, with 
a grim look at her husband. 

Chapter III. 


The Melverton house had been closed three 
days, or opened only to let in air and sunshine 
in fine weather, according to the instructions 
Mr. Fred had given the boy who was left in 
charge. It was fine weather on the eighth, — 
almost too fine, — for the early part of July that 
year was dry. The place that morning pre- 
sented a pleasing picture; the brook plashed 
in the little ravine, under the rhododendrons 
that bordered it on the Melverton side ; the 
jets of a fountain on the edge of the lawn glit- 
tered in the sun ; birds flitted about among the 
firs and larches and fruit-trees ; and a single 
human figure added life to the scene. 

This was a coatless boy, in a broad-brimmed 
straw hat, with a pair of dark suspenders form- 
ing a large letter X on the back of his shirt — a 
homely boy with a short nose, uptilted at an 
angle of about forty-five degrees, and a loose 
under lip — in short, the boy we know. Not 
so handsome as some boys you may have seen ; 
yet it must be owned that he gave a very 
pretty effect to the landscape, standing there 
on the edge of the lawn, before the banks of 
flower-beds in front of the house, holding the 
end of a hose which stretched its wavy length 
away across the green grass and graveled walk, 
like a preposterously long and slim black snake. 

The head of the snake in the boy's hand 
was a lawn-sprinkler, which gave it a pro- 
digious crest of silver spray, out-glittering the 
fountain itself, forming, indeed, a sort of mova- 
ble fountain, that danced about on the lawn, 
and among the flowers and shrubs, at the boy's 
own sweet will. 

He seemed to find pleasure in his task, if 




ever a boy did. He sent the showers wher- 
ever his fancy led, now on the flower-beds, 
and now on the lawn, even occasionally on 
the fountain itself, to watch the curiously min- 
gling jets ; watering a good deal in the most 
convenient .places, and neglecting too much 
some that could n't be reached without more 
effort than he cared to put forth. Sometimes 
he amused himself by making rainbow flashes 
in the spray, tossing it in the sunshine, regard- 
less where it fell, even when it came down upon 
his own head. And all the while he indulged 
his boyish dreams. 

He dreamed, for one thing, that the hose 
was long enough so that he could carry his 
sprinkler to the river, and make a mimic rain 
that might delude the fish into biting, as they 
are thought to do on wet days better than 
in fine weather. 

He also dreamed that he was no longer 
the son of old man Ketterell and the village 
washerwoman, but one of the Melverton 
boys, and that this fine estate was his rightful 

He would have liked very well to be Fred 
or Frank Melverton for a little while, but per- 
haps not all the time. He would have liked 
their guns and their bicycles, and some of 
their money to spend (or rather a good deal 
of it), and, instead of having them " boss " him, 
he would have much preferred to boss them. 
But as to the rest — the hard studying (Fred was 
in the Institute of Technology, and Frank was 
preparing for Harvard), the cultivated man- 
ners, and the kind of company they kept — 
he was n't at all sure but that he might just as 
well remain Gid Ketterell, with his own boy 
life unbothered by books, and with his own 
free-and-easy companions. 

Steady occupation, or restraint of any sort, 
did not suit his constitution. But he now had 
a job about as much to his mind as any- 
thing in the way of employment could well be. 
He had been at it three days, and had n't got 
sick of it yet. Besides having a general care 
of the house, and watering the garden, he was 
to feed the cat and the chickens, run the lawn- 
mower, and keep the flower-beds free from 
weeds, with other light duties usually per- 
formed by the coachman, now absent with 

the family. Gid had not yet got so far as 
hoeing and pulling weeds, which, being the 
most disagreeable of his tasks, he naturally 
postponed as long as possible. 

Having sprinkled some things that needed 
water, and several others that did n't, he was 
not the kind of boy to miss a chance of giv- 
ing the cat a shower-bath. Puss darted away, 
shaking herself, to his immense delight. 

" It did n't take her long to get her money's 
worth ! " was his comment on this pleasant 

He bethought him next to look into the 
trees for a bird's nest, which could n't escape 
so easily. A nest of young birds with a pair 
of distressed old ones hovering and chirping 
about to defend them, would have been espe- 
cially inviting. He found only a purple finch's 
nest, from which the young finches had fortu- 
nately flown; he was showering that, and im- 
agining what sport it would be if the little 
half-fledged bodies were still there to receive 
the drenching (though Gid was not an excep- 
tionally bad-hearted boy), when a chance for 
livelier mischief presented itself. 

" There 's Midget ! " he said to himself, turn- 
ing his back, and pretending not to notice 
a child straying up through the shrubbery 
from the brookside. " I '11 give him Hail 
Columby ! " 

Chapter IV. 


He was a little fellow, not more than five 
or six years old, and small for his years. He 
wore a short frock like a girl's, that showed be- 
neath it his bare brown legs and feet ; he was 
bareheaded, and he had fine flaxen hair, the 
light locks of which strayed over his tanned 
face as the bushes brushed it, or the wind blew. 

It was as bright and happy a face at that 
moment as the morning sun shone upon. Yet 
there was something strange about it, you could 
hardly have told what : there was something 
strange in all the looks and movements of this 
wandering elf. If he had been the only being 
in the world, he could n't have seemed more 
lonely or more deeply absorbed in his own lit- 
tle life. He drew down the drooping rhodo- 



6 9 

dendron branches as if he loved them, and 
held the glossy leaves to his cheeks and lips. 
And when he came to the flower-beds, he 
clasped his tiny hands as he bent over the 
blooms in mute rapture, touching and smelling. 

He did not hear Gideon Ketterell, who came 
up behind him ; he did not even hear the pat- 
tering of the hose-shower on the borders and 
walks. Alas ! for more than three years those 
little ears had never heard a sound, neither the 
songs of birds nor the falling of the summer 
rain, nor the voice of any other child, of bro- 
ther or sister, nor the words of endearment his 
mother bestowed upon him all the more pas- 
sionately for his sad bereavement. He had 
forgotten to prattle, or even to call her by the 
dearest of all names. 

His mother was the Widow Lisle, whose home 
was across the brook. This was her youngest 
child, Laurence, pet-named Laurie, but often- 
est called Midget on account of his odd ways, 
small size, and restless and sometimes mischie- 
vous activity. He was an object of love and 
j wonder and pity to almost everybody, only 
a few of the rudest boys making fun of his 
infirmity. Gid, I regret to record, was one of 

Midget had plucked a sprig of heliotrope, 
and was holding it to his face in an ecstasy of 
pleasure, when Gid, who had been watching 
for a favorable moment, turned the hose full 
upon him. In a moment the child was com- 
pletely drenched. But the result was n't just 
what Gideon had anticipated. Midget did not 
run away as the cat did ; he did not scream — 
the hapless child had long since lost the power 
to scream. He turned, and with the water 
dripping from his hair and face and arms, 
gave Gid a look of such astonishment and dis- 
tress, that it must have touched even that care- 
less nature, for Gid immediately pointed the 
sprinkler away. 

"You should n't be picking the flowers. I 
am here to take care of 'em," Gid said, by way 
of excusing himself to himself, rather than to 
the child, who could n't hear. 

Having winked the water from his eyes, the 
child kept them fixed on Gid with an intense 
frowning gaze, full of unutterable grief and re- 
proach, marvelous in one so young, at the 

same time backing slowly away as from an ob- 
ject of dread. So he reached the rhododen- 
drons, into which he darted and disappeared. 

" What did the little imp look at me that 
way for ? " Gid muttered, with an uncomforta- 
ble feeling, as he began to reflect seriously on 
what he had done. "The wetting won't do 
him any harm, though his mother may n't see 
it in that light. Anyhow, he won't come in 
here again very soon." 

Gid was mistaken, however, about that. He 
was watering the flower-beds profusely, and 
trying to forget the unpleasant incident, when 
a rustling of the rhododendrons and a sound 
of footsteps attracted his attention ; and there, 
emerging from the bushes, was Midget, drag- 
ging forward by the coat-skirt a boy of about 
Gid's own age and size. 

It was Tracy Lisle, the little deaf-mute's 
elder brother. 

" Hello, Trace ! " said Gideon carelessly, as 
he proceeded with his sprinkling. 

Master Lisle advanced with stern looks and 
determined steps to the graveled walk where 
Gid stood. He wore a somewhat soiled suit 
of gray, and a soft felt hat with the rim turned 
up in front, giving him a somewhat aggressive 
aspect, and he walked straight up to Master 
Ketterell. His blue eyes sparkled, and his 
naturally ruddy face had a flush of excitement 
in it, as he demanded : 

" Gid Ketterell, what did you wet my little 
brother for ? " 

" Oh, him ? " Gid replied, with a laugh. " I 
was watering when he came in the way of my 
sprinkler. That 's all there is about that." 

" Gid Ketterell," the older brother replied, 
" if every true word you speak was a bushel 
of cherries on that tree, there would n't be 
enough to climb for. He got his wetting in a 
different way." 

" How do you know ? " Gid retorted, with 
sullen defiance. 

" He says so." 

" Says so ? I never knew the little monkey 
could speak." And Gid giggled. 

" Little monkey ? — call my brother little mon- 
key ? " Tracy cried out, in blazing indignation. 

" You must n't dispute my word then," said 
Gid, starting back in a belligerent attitude, 




and pointing his hose aside. " Need n't double 
your fist and look so savage ! Don't you strike 
me, Trace Lisle ! " 

" I 've no notion of striking you, much as 
you deserve it," Tracy replied. " My fist 
doubled itself, as any honest fist would, know- 
ing what you 've done, and then hearing you 
deny it, and call him such a name as that ; a 
child that can't even speak in self-defense ! " 

" Oh ! I thought he could speak ! " Gid jeered, 
still watering his flowers, while he stood ready 
to dodge a blow. 

" He can't speak a word, and you know it. 
For all that, he can tell more truth in half a 
minute than you are apt to tell in all day. He 
ran home and told just how he got his drench- 
ing. Now he '11 tell you." 

So saying, Tracy made a gesture to the child, 
who stood watching the disputants as eagerly 
and as intelligently as if he had understood 
every word. A brief communication by signs 
passed between the brothers ; Midget ran to 
the edge of the flower-bed, pretended to pick 
a sprig of heliotrope and hold it to his nose, 
and then suddenly to feel the shower from 
Gid's sprinkler splash over him ; acting the lit- 
tle pantomime with an amusing liveliness at 
which Gid had to laugh. 

" He did n't come in the way of your 
sprinkler ; the sprinkler came in his way," 
said Tracy. 

" I guess that 's about the size of it," Gid 
answered. " He was ' hooking ' flowers ; I am 
here to protect the flowers, and I thought I 'd 
give him a lesson." 

"He hooking flowers ? I 'd like to hear you 
say that to one of the Melvertons ! " Tracy ex- 
claimed. " They encourage him to come in 
and pick all the flowers he wants. They 're 
as kind to him as if he was their own child, and 
they 're always sending bouquets to my mo- 
ther. The idea of your protecting the flowers 
from any one of us, and especially from him ! " 
And he made a motion for Midget to help him- 
self to the heliotropes, which the child did, 
casting up at Gideon a glance of gleeful tri- 

" You can take the responsibility," Gid mut- 
tered, discomfited and surly. " The Melvertons 
did n't say anything to me about letting neigh- 

bors come in and help themselves to things. I 
supposed I was here to prevent just that." 

" Suppose you are," cried Tracy. " They 
expected you to use some reason and decency 
in guarding the premises. A good house-dog 
would do that much." 

" Now look here ! " broke forth young Ket- 
terell, losing his temper. " I 've heard enough 
of your insults. Get off these grounds, or I '11 
give you a soaking; and don't you ever set foot 
here again as long as I am in charge." 

" You won't always be in charge," Tracy 
retorted scornfully. " You can give me a soak- 
ing if you think it will be wise to do so, but 
you '11 wish you had n't. You don't know the 
Melvertons so well as I do, and they don't know 
you. There '11 be an end of your insolence 
to neighbors and meanness to little children 
on this place soon as ever they find you out." 

And, taking Midget by the hand, he walked 
off very deliberately, leaving Gideon stifled with 
feelings he did n't deem it safe to indulge. 

Chapter V. 


Descending into the cool ravine, Tracy 
caught the child up in his arms, and was cross- 
ing the brook with him, when he met their 
mother coming down the opposite slope. 

" I heard high words," she said, with a look 
of pain in her gentle face, "and I am so sorry!" 

" I 'm sorry, too," said Tracy. " I hate to 
get into a row, especially with a fellow like Gid 
Ketterell ; but it was just as Laurie told us. 
He was picking a flower when Gid came up 
behind and showered him. I let him under- 
stand that he did n't own quite all the earth." 

At the same time Midget, perched proudly 
on his brother's shoulder, with one little arm 
about his neck, held up in the other hand his 
bunch of heliotropes, as if to show that he 
had come off triumphant. 

With the trees and shrubs of the brookside 
for a background, they formed a picture that 
made the mother smile, with moist eyes. 

" Well, I hope it is all over," she said, " and 
that you won't go near him again." 

" I sha'n't go near him, be sure ! But it is n't 
all over. The Melvertons shall know how he 




treated Laurie," Tracy declared. " The idea 
of punishing him for picking a flower, where 
he has always been as free as the birds are, 
and as welcome ! " 

'• It is exasperating," said Mrs. Lisle, as they 
walked up toward the parsonage. " Gideon 
did n't consider. But I 've no doubt he is 
sorry enough now. Don't, my son, think for a 
moment of reporting him to the Melvertons." 

" He deserves it," said Tracy, scowling at the 
recollection of the wrong. " Why did they ever 
engage such a fellow to take care of the place ? " 

" To encourage him, I suppose, and to help 
his hard-working mother. The Melvertons do 
a great deal for her, as they do for everybody 
who needs their help," said Mrs. Lisle; "and 
no doubt they thought it would be wise to help 
her in this way." 

" It seems to me like encouraging laziness," 
replied Tracy. " Gid bragged to the boys the 
other day of his ' snap ' ; he was to have five 
dollars a week just for doing — what ? I 'd like 
to do all he does, and more, with no pay at all, 
merely as a return for what the Melvertons are 
always doing for us. They might know I would. 
What did they pass by me for, and get a Ket- 
terell boy? — of all boys in this town!" he 
exclaimed indignantly. 

They had reached the porch of the old par- 
sonage, and Mrs. Lisle, seated in a porch-chair, 
was waiting for the child to bring a dry frock 
and a comb she had sent him for. 

" I 'm afraid you are a little jealous, my son," 
she replied. " If any good can come to one of 
poor Mrs. Ketterell's family, you should rejoice, 
as I do." 

"If he would only do something to deserve 
it, and behave himself!" Tracy murmured, 
seating himself on the porch rail. " That 's 
all. How cunning he is, is n't he ? " gazing 
intently at the child's forehead, as the hair 
was combed smoothly away from it. The little 
hand was still clasping the bunch of flowers. 

Midget had returned in a dry frock, which 
his sister Ida had put on him, and his mother 
had taken him on her lap. 

" The idea of anybody being harsh or mean 
with him!" exclaimed Tracy. "It makes me 
want to go right back and give that fellow a 
well-deserved thrashing ! " 

" What fellow ? How did Laurie get wet ? " 
inquired the sister, a girl of seventeen, with 
graceful ways, and a complexion like a peach, 
which contrasted charmingly with her plain 

She had followed Midget to the porch to 
learn the particulars of the story he had tried 
to tell her. Then a man's voice was heard, 
and Mr. Walworth, the young minister who 
boarded at the parsonage, mounted the steps. 
He, too, must know what had happened. 

" Laurie has had a little shower-bath; noth- 
ing serious," Mrs. Lisle answered pleasantly. 

She was willing to let the matter pass so. 
But Tracy, boy-like, still burning with indig- 
nation, poured forth his own version of the 

Mr. Walworth, a slender, quiet young man, 
stood hat in hand, listening with interest, and 
watching the combing of the child's hair, then 
remarked dryly, lifting his eyes to Ida's : 

" One might do Gideon a more substantial 
favor than to let Fred Melverton know of this." 

" We won't let him know," said Ida, a warm 
color mounting to her cheeks. " Midget is 
none the worse for his little shower-bath. I 
should be ashamed to trouble the Melvertons 
with so trifling an affair." 

" You are very forgiving," said the young 
minister, with a smile of admiring approval ; for 
he had noticed how indignant Ida was while 
listening to the story. 

" / 'in not ! " said Tracy, far from pacified. 
" But Fred sha'n't hear of it from me. Only, 
Gid Ketterell must keep his hands and his 
hose-sprinkler off from our Laurie in future." 

It was n't long before Midget was playing 
about the Melverton place again, without pay- 
ing much heed to Gideon. But Tracy took 
care not to cross the boundary brook. 

Chapter VI. 


On the following Tuesday (we shall have 
reason to remember the day), Gid Ketterell 
was fitting his key to the back door of the 
Melverton house late in the afternoon, when a 
green apple came skipping along the walk and 
hit his foot. He turned suddenly, and saw 


an unwelcome face smiling through the shrub- 
bery above the grassy bank. 

" Look here, Osk Ordway," he said, "there 's 
no market for green sass on these premises ! " 
And he kicked the apple away. 

" Oh, close your candy-trap ! " said Osk, 
good-naturedly, coming over the bank. 

He was a strongly built youth, with a bend 
in his shoulders that threw his head well for- 
ward, and gave him an air of peering curiously 
into things, with a pair of small keen eyes, from 
under prominent brows. He had a powerful 
neck, a white throat, and a short, curved nose. 
There was a humorous quirk to his mouth and 
he spoke with a sarcastic drawl as he came 

" You have n't got the deed of this property 
yet, Gid. The boys said you seemed to think 
you had ; but I ventured to remark that you 
would n't play the Grand Mogul with me." 

" There 's no Grand Mogul about it," Gid 
replied; "but I came here on one condition, 
as I told 'em — that I was n't to have any loaf- 
ing about the place." 

" But that don't apply to me, you know," 
said Osk, laughing. 

" It applies to you particularly," Gid replied; 
and the two stood looking into each other's 
eyes, Gid with a weak assumption of authority, 
Osk with amused insolence. 

"How have I gained that honor — me 
particularly ? " Osk drawled. 

" Shall I tell you the truth ? " Gid asked. 

" If you have n't been too long out of prac- 
tice, and got rusty, give us a sample." 

" Here it is, then ! I hope you '11 like the 
quality and send in your order. Fred Melver- 
ton says to me, he says, ' You are not to have 
any loafers around, and I warn you against that 
Oscar Ordway particularly.' I did n't mean to 
tell you, and hurt your feelings," Gid continued, 
" but you forced me to." 

" Oh, you don't hurt my feelings in the least. 
It 's too killing ! I knew I should be enter- 
tained if I came to look at you on your throne, 
Gid, but I did n't expect this." Osk seemed 
choking with laughter. " Don't say another 
word, or I shall drop. A good smart fly might 
kick me over ! " 

" I 'm glad it amuses you," said Gideon, 
blushing very red. 

" Amuses me ? Why, I 'm thinking how it 
will tickle the boys ! I know they '11 ask why 
Fred Melverton did n't put me in charge, and 
warn me against you, and I 'm bothered if I 
can tell 'em. But see here, Gid ! " Oscar be- 
came less savagely ironical. " You and I are 
too old friends for this. We 've been on too 
many after-dark watermelon raids and grape- 
spoiling expeditions together. What are you 
going to do now ? " 

Gid could bear anything better than ridicule, 
and he was glad to escape from Osk's. 

" I 've got to shut up the house," he replied. 
" I 've had the windows open to air it off; now 
I 'm going to fasten up and go home." 

" I thought you 'd be going about this time ; 
hurry up, and I '11 go with you," said Osk. 

" All right," Gid replied, glad to get rid of 
him in that way, " if you don't mind waiting." 

" I 'd sooner go in with you than wait out- 
side," Osk said, making a motion to enter with 
him. " I 'd like to see the inside of this house; 
they say it 's out of sight." 

"It is — out of sight for you!" Gid ex- 
claimed, trying to keep him back. 

" Oh, bosh ! " Osk said, forcing his way in. 
" Where 's the harm ? " 

" If anybody knew ! " Gid faltered weakly. 

" Anybody ain't going to know," said Osk. 
He was already inside, peering about with his 
deep-set eyes, but taking care not to betray too 
much admiration. " It 's all very fine, as the 
toad said of the new garden-rake ; but I 'd just 
as lief be in my own comfortable hole. A man 
can't more than live if you put him into a gold- 
and-silver house," he added philosophically. 

" It 's dead against the rules, letting you in 
here ! " Gid remonstrated, irritated and anxious. 

" I understand all that," said Osk, putting 
him carelessly aside. " By the way, speaking 
of gold and silver, I 'd give more to see that 
prize cup Fred won on the Fourth than all 
these fine fixings. Do you know where it is ? " 

" If I do," replied Gideon, " it won't do you 
any good." And he went on closing windows 
and blinds, followed from room to room by his 
persistent companion. 

{To be continued.) 


By Helen Harcourt. 


Of all the curious occurrences in this won- 
derful world, one of the most comical is sud- 
denly to behold a small, circular piece of earth 
rise at your feet, revealing a round hole, with 
a black, hairy head protruding therefrom, in a 
cautious, knowing way. Your surprise keeps 
you motionless, and so the spider throws wide 
open the little door, and marches boldly forth. 
Once, you know, 

There came a big spider, 
And sat down beside her, 
And frightened Miss Muffet away ; 

but, in your case, it is your funny little visitor 
who becomes panic-stricken, and suddenly van- 
ishes into the earth. Then you wonder what it 
all means, and begin to search for your comi- 
cal visitor's place of retreat. 

But to find it is not an easy task, for so clev- 
erly has the fat little workwoman concealed her 
gate, that, even after the most careful search, 
you are unable to detect a single spot where 
the surface of the soil appears to have been 
disturbed; so you do the wisest thing in your 
power — go quietly back to your seat, and re- 
main there in perfect silence. By this time you 
have rightly suspected your shy visitor to be the 
trap-door spider, and you also may be aware 
that the night, which is rapidly approaching, 
will lure her again from her home in search of 
her evening meal. When the trap once more 
shows itself, by being lifted, you understand 
why you could not find it before. The cunning 
spider had covered it with moss, so that, when 
Vol. XXIII.— 10. 7 

shut, no trace of it was visible. This time si- 
lence is your motto ; not a muscle must be 
stirred ; a moment more, and that queer little 
house will be at your disposal — ah! that was 
an unlucky sneeze. 

Back pops your fat friend, and down goes 
the door in a flash. Never mind, there is no 
harm done, after all; for this time you have 
marked the spot, and can pursue your investi- 

Open the door first, and look into the home 
that it guards; but how difficult it is to open 
that door! You succeed in lifting it gently, 
about an eighth of an inch, just enough to see 
the tenant hastily hooking her hind legs to the 
silken lining of the trap, and her fore legs to 
the sides of the tube itself, and then you are 
astonished to find the little door 

jerked from your fingers 

and closely 

shut again. On 
returning to the 
attack, you are 
again baffled. The 
sturdy householder 
defends her prem- 
ises with a desperate 
strength ; so deter- 
mined is her opposition, indeed, that you finally 
desist, lest the delicate hinge of the lid should be 
broken in the struggle. 

Failing to take her house by storm, you try 
mining, and carefully set to work to dig away 





the earth around the long, cylindrical nest, 
which you know extends below that funny door. 
Even this does not drive the spider to desert her 
home. Actual violence must be employed be- 
fore this faithful freeholder will yield up her 
hard-earned burrow. And when she is finally 
forced to this extremity, your heart fails you, 
and you almost regret driving the brave little 
tenant away. 

Full of life and activity when she first peered 



out upon you, brave and determined in her de- 
fense of her home, the spider is no sooner com- 
pelled to desert her post than a total change 
comes over her. Though herself uninjured, she 
remains fixed on the spot whence her burrow 
has been removed, or else moves slowly about, 
without aim or purpose. Who will say that 
spiders cannot feel grief? 

Before examining more closely into the tubu- 
lar nest you hold in your hand, observe what 
a strange-looking architect constructed it. She 
is a chubby little worker, about an inch and a 
half in length, and with a large, round abdo- 
men, from which project the spinnerets that 
manufactured the silken lining of her nest. The 
legs are short, but strong, and she is armed with 
a dangerous-looking pair of fangs, so much like 
those of a crab that the French call her a 
" crab-spider." She sleeps most of the day, and 
at night sallies forth on hunting expeditions, 
from which she never returns unsuccessful. She 
preys upon all insects, but especially beetles ; 
and down there, in what you might call the cel- 

lar, you will be likely to find some remains of this 
favorite game. 

When the loose earth is shaken from the 
nest, one can see exactly how it is made. 
When the trap-door spider selects a site for her 
home (the site is invariably on sloping ground), 
she first sinks a tunnel — a straight, smooth, cir- 
cular shaft. This task completed, she next be- 
gins a lining, that the earth may not fall in. 
The outer lining, as you will see, is rough, and 
of a brownish color ; it is laid on in flakes, and 
is really so stiff and harsh that under other cir- 
cumstances you would more readily believe it 
to be the bark of a tree than a web woven by 
a spider. But there is an inner lining to this 
outer one, and this is of a wonderfully different 
texture, being perfectly smooth, and of silky 
softness ; moreover, it is white instead of 
brown, looking a good deal like unsized paper. 
If you were to apply a microscope to this lin- 
ing, you would find that, like the outer one, it is 
formed of threads twisted together without or- 
der or regularity, and of very coarse threads, 
too, — coarse when compared with the webs 
spun by the majority of spiders. Examining 
the trap-door, you will find that it is made of 
the same materials as the tube, only somewhat 
thicker, and circular in shape. Is it not mar- 
velous how exactly it fits the mouth of the tube, 
being neither too large nor too small ? — and 
yet, incredible as it may seem, the inner edges of 
both the tube and the door are beveled, so as to 
make a certainty of their fitting tightly together. 
The very shape of this little door is wonderful, 
too. In the first place, no human workman 
could have disguised its location more thor- 
oughly, had concealment been the chief object 
sought ; for, not content with thatching her 
door with moss, the fat little worker has hidden 
its circular edge by a series of minute projec- 
tions formed of moss and earth. Besides, this 
strange trap is so arranged on the slope of the 
ground that its own weight causes it to shut of 
itself when the lifting power is removed, its hinge 
being invariably on the upper side. 

That hinge is another marvel of ingenuity. 
Instead of being let into the door, as a human 
carpenter might have arranged it, and so made 
liable to slip or become displaced, it is a con- 
tinuation of the inner lining of the tube, and 

i8 9 s-: 



will hold firmly to its place so long as the nest 
itself shall last. 

The trap-door spider, whose odd home we 
have thus studied, lives in the tropics, holding 
cold-blooded Northerners in high disdain, and 
plainly it prefers Jamaica, the Mediterranean 
shores, Australia, and kindred climates. 


which floats lightly about in the breeze until it is 
caught by some branch or bough. As soon as the 
little architect feels that her rope is attached, she 
draws it taut ; the first step is then complete, 
the foundation of her dwelling is laid. Then 
the mistress of the mansion proceeds in her 
work by traveling rapidly along, and sending 
out lines at angles. She has frequently been 
known to throw these lines across running 

Once made, the web is furnished with a tele- 
graph. Lines are stretched from all directions 

By Blanche L. Macdonell. 

" Oh ! the horrid thing ! " shrieks the little 
girl at the sight of a spider ; and often older 
people are foolish enough to follow her exam- 
ple. But if that child could be induced to 
watch the insect's ways and methods carefully, 
she would never be tempted again to call it 
" horrid," but would soon be lost in admiration 
at the unwearied little worker's cleverness and 

Spiders may be divided into two great classes 
— the Sedentary Spiders, who remain at home 
and set traps for their prey ; and the Wandering 
Spiders, who roam busily over the earth, and 
rely upon their own agility for providing food. 
Sedentary spiders are of three main species : 
(i) those that set the ordinary radiating cob- 
web traps; (2) those that construct cavernous 
homes with traps set outside of them ; (3) those 
that live in holes which they dig in the ground, 
and which they line with silk. 

When during your summer vacation in the 
country you take an early morning walk, you 
will notice thousands of cobwebs resting upon 
grass and bushes ; the weight of dew which 
hangs on them bears ample testimony to their 
strength. The spider's spinnerets are beauti- 
fully adapted to the work which they are in- 
tended to accomplish. If you want a lesson in 
patience and sagacity, watch her process of 
building, and note how cleverly she overcomes 
all engineering obstacles. It takes a spider 
perhaps about half an hour to construct a web 
in all its completeness. After choosing the 
most desirable spot, Madam Spider sets indus- 
triously to work to spin a thread of great length 
(large spiders make it as much as fifty feet), 


to her place of waiting; on these she rests her 
feet, and is thereby apprised of the approach of 
any prey. Once the victim is fairly caught 
there is no possibility of escape ; the spider at 
once weaves a web around its body until it 
becomes perfectly helpless, and is carried off 
in triumph. 

The den spider, who is liable to attacks from 
her enemies, is the most curious study of all. 
To have an idea of this creature's home, you 
must imagine a hollow tube in the ground, 
divided, at some distance down, till it is like 
the letter Y. One top of the Y is the opening; 
the other does not come quite to the surface, 
but forms a blind alley. At the opening is 
a lid, with a silken hinge, which our friend the 
spider generally keeps prudently closed. Sup- 
pose that an enemy discovers this door, and en- 
deavors to open it. The spider, laying hold of 

7 6 


the door on the inside with her strong claws, 
holds it tight. It may be that this rebuff 
proves sufficient, and the assailant goes some- 
where else in search of a dinner. But if the 
spider finds herself overmatched, she wisely 
abandons this defense, and rushes down the 
tube. Just at the fork of the Y she 

has an inner strong- i 

hold. To this she 4^t 

now betakes her- 


self, closing it, and holding the door tight as 
before. Again a struggle takes place, and there is 
a chance that the adversary may retire. But if 
the spider finds her foe too strong she is still 
provided with a resource. She makes a strategi- 

cal movement which rarely fails of attaining its 
purpose : suddenly rushing into the blind alley, 
she draws the door over the opening, thus hiding 
every sign of it. There she lies comfortably 
concealed, enjoying the confusion of her enemy. 
He rushes triumphantly down the stem of the 
Y, anticipating an easy triumph, and to his utter 
amazement finds it empty ! He actually knew 
she was there. He pushes around, searching 
in every comer. Slowly and sadly he comes to 
the conclusion that he has been made a fool 
of, and finally departs, dinnerless, disconsolate, 
and deeply disgusted. How that clever spider 
must chuckle as she listens to his receding 
footsteps ! 

One of the simplest of nature's barometers is 
a spider's web. When there is a prospect of 
wind or rain, the spinner shortens the filaments 
by which the web is sustained, and as long as 
the weather continues variable leaves it in that 
state. If the spider lengthens the threads, it is 
a sign of calm, fair weather. The duration of 
the fine weather may be judged by the length to 
which the threads are let out. If the spider re- 
mains inactive, it is a sign of rain; if she continues 
to work during a shower, the downpour will soon 
be followed by clearing weather. Observation 
has shown that the spider makes changes in its 
web every twenty-four hours ; if such changes 
are made in the evening, just before sunset, the 
night will certainlv be clear. 


LU . 






ing at first only a very short time out of water, they are 
taught to bear longer and longer exposures to the air 
until they have thoroughly learned the lesson of keeping 
their shells closed. Then, when they are sent to the 
Paris markets, they arrive with closed shells and in a nice, 
healthy condition. 

Yours truly, M. NUGENT. 


I 'LL venture to say that hardly a member of this 
congregation does not know licorice-water, — how 
easily it is produced, — how dark, frothy, and deli- 
cious it is, and how very few grown folk have the 
courage to taste it ! 

Yet many of the grown men and women would 
be astonished to learn the truth, that licorice-water 
is a favorite and valued beverage for persons of all 
ages in the Eastern world ! Well, it is not your 
Jack's business to instruct them — poor things ! 

But you young folk, what else do you know 
about licorice ? You probably suspect that it grows 
from the soil — for you often carry bits of licorice- 
root about during recess. 

But what of the plant — Is it a tree? a bush? 

f^* 1 * TACK-IN-THE — PULPIT avine? Does it bear flowers ? Does it grow on, 

Another year of St. Nicholas — its twenty- 
third — begins this month, my hearers; and I 
congratulate you and it truly and heartily. On the 
whole, I hardly know which should be most con- 
gratulated — for what would the young folk do with- 
out St. Nicholas, or St. Nicholas do without 
the young folk ! 

Well, success to you both, and many a happy 
return of readers and numbers and volumes. And 
now here is a pleasant letter lately sent in by your 
friend, Meredith Nugent. 

educated oysters. 

Dear Jack: Lately I heard of a school that is not 
for boys and girls, neither is it for grown-up folks. It 
is on the French coast, and the pupils of this seaside 
school are oysters ! 

"Oysters?" you will say — "how can oysters go to 
school — and what are they taught?" Well, they are 
taught to stop gaping, — in other words, they are taught 
to keep their shells closed. When their education in 
this respect is complete they are ready to be sent to 

Now it would never do to allow oysters to travel all 
the way from the coast to Paris with their shells wide 
open. They would die long before reaching that beauti- 
ful city, and that is exactly what uneducated oysters always 
do. Educated oysters know better. When these must 
travel to Paris they keep their mouths, so to speak, 
tightly shut, and they never gape during the journey. 
But how any living thing can keep from gaping with 
astonishment on arriving in Paris is more than I can 

Now as to the method of teaching : The newly dredged 
oysters are placed in water ; then occasionally during the 
day the water is run off, leaving the oysters uncovered 
and otherwise incommoded. During the first time the 
oysters are uncovered a great number of them open their 
shells, and these probably feel very uncomfortable until 
the water covers them again. After a (e\v lessons of this 
kind the oysters slowly learn not to open their shells 
when they are expected to keep them closed. From be- 

year by year, till it is as big as a mighty oak ? And 
is black licorice made from berry, or bark, or 
root ? Also, is it of any importance to man ? Any 
correct bit of information on this subject will be 
heartily appreciated, my hearers. 


Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: With your permission, 
I should like to submit this tempting subject to the boys 
of your large congregation. 

Granted most gracefully. So, 
boys, here is a way by which you 
can make a new noise — new, at any 
rate, to this part of the world. It 
has been heard many a time over in 
South Australia ever since I do not 
know how long ago. And very 
likely those who love peace and 
quiet have often been saying: 
" Boora gaboora-boora corrobo- 
ree !" which Jack is informed means 
" Stop that racket ! " or something 
of the sort. 

Now look at this picture, and do 
as the young Australian does when 
he takes it into his woolly head to 
make a perboregan, and you will 
have something to see and espe- 
cially to hear. Get a stout stick of 
stringy-bark wood (or, if you can't 
manage that, some other stout 
wood, like ash or hickory, will do), 
and see that it tapers like a whip- 
handle and is about eighteen inches 
long. Next, cut from a shingle, if 
you can't get a good slice of Aus- 
tralian wattle bark, a three-cornered 
piece, about four inches long, of the shape shown in the 
sketch. When he has these two ready, the young black- 
fellow asks his mother to make for him a cord out of the 
twisted sinews of a kangaroo's tail. If your mother 
does n't find it convenient to do this, probably a bit of 
stout fishing-line will answer the purpose. Tie your 
three-cornered piece of shingle to one end of the cord, 
and then tie the other end of the cord around a groove 
in the top of the handle so that it will turn freely, and so 



that the lash will be about as long as the stock of this 
whip. Now your perboregan is made, and you are ready 
to begin having fun with it. Get off by yourself, — in 
the middle of a ten-acre lot would be about right, — 
and swing the thing around your head as hard as ever 
you can. Then stop it suddenly with a peculiar twist or 
jerk, and it will crack like a horse-pistol. They say it 
can be heard two miles on a still day; but perhaps it 
would be well to prove this, if you can, by going about that 
distance away from other folks whenever you practise. 

Ernest Ingersoll. 


SOME kind friend of this congregation has sent 
to my pulpit a newspaper clipping which will prove 
quite a joy to little folks who cannot yet read, but 
who know their letters. 

Try it, big brother, sister, or friend, as the case 
may be. Take the little one on 
your knee, and ask him or her to 
help you to read it. Then, read- 
ing each line aloud, you pause 
at the final capitals, which must 
be given by the little one, and 
the meaning of the (before) sense- 
less line will come out with great 
effect. Although baby's services 
are not required for every line, 
there will be quite enough work 
to satisfy so young a member of 
the literary world. 


There is a farmer who is YY 

Enough to take his EE, 
And study nature with his II 

And think of what he CC. 
He hears the clatter of the JJ M 'Mi ■> 

As they each other TT, 
And sees that when a tree DKK 

It makes a home for BB. 
A yoke of oxen he will UU, 

With many haws and GG, 
And their mistakes he will XOQ 

When plowing for his PP. 
He little buys, but much he sells, 

And therefore little 00 ; 
And when he hoes his soil by spells 

He also soils his hose. 


Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : Here is a true 
story for your " chicks : " 

One day not long ago a small black and white kit- 
ten wandered into the grounds of the Institute at 
Flushing. Its fur was rough, and it was sad and 
wretched because its own mother had deserted it. It 
seemed to have not a friend in the world ; so for com- 
panionship, or perhaps to secure a bite of food 
now and then, it began to associate warily with the 
chickens at the barn. Among a number of hens 
with a horde of small chickens, was one old hen 
in particular, who possessed a brood of four chicks. 
Something about this old hen attracted the mother- 
less kitten, and the two became friends. 

Of all this, however, little was known by the 
people of the house. But one day, somebody (per- 
haps it was Mr. Northrup, who has especial charge 




I AM told that the tea-plant can be cultivated to 
great advantage in one of the United States, — per- 
haps in more than one, — but South Carolina, they 
say, has produced a fine brand, and will continue 
to do better and better in its cultivation. 

The dear Little Schoolma'am says this does n't 
specially concern boys and girls ; but the Deacon 
thinks it does. "For," says he, "when the dear 
little milk-consumers and cambric-coffee-drinkers 
grow up they will not have to go to China or Japan 
or any foreign country for their tea." 

Why not look into this matter? 

of the garden and the stables, and all that) re- 
ported that one of the hens was curiously engaged. 

Several persons went out, and there was the old 
Plymouth Rock hen on the ground, with her own 
brood crowding under one wing, while under the 
other was a little kitten whose head and shoulders 
could just be seen sticking out among the feathers, 
looking satisfied and comfortable, as you can see in 
the picture I send with this. 

The kitten has now grown too large to be cared 
for by its strange foster-mother ; yet almost any 
day for a long time, especially when light showers 
were passing over, one might have seen the little 
kitten under the wing of the good old hen. 

Yours very truly, Tappan Adney. 


By John Bennett. 

On Monday morning Dolly's clothes 

All need a thorough tubbing; 
So Prue and I put in the day 

With washing, rinsing, rubbing; 
With boiling, bluing, bleaching, too, 
As all good washerwomen do, 
Till Dolly's clothes are clean as new 
And we have finished scrubbing. 

On Tuesday comes the ironing, 

The starching, sprinkling, pressing; 
For doing gowns up prettily 

Is half the charm of dressing. 
And from our irons all the day 
We have to coax the cats away, 
For with them they will try to play- 
And that would be distressing 

On Wednesday thread and needle fly 

With basting, whipping, stitching; 
With hooks and eyes and buttonholes 

To keep our fingers twitching. 
And while the scissors snip, snip, snip, 
We patch and darn and mend and rip 
Till all is trim from tip to tip, 
And Dolly looks bewitching. 


On Thursday afternoon 

we take 
A recess from our 

Dress Dolly up in all 

her best 
And call upon the 

neighbors ; 
So she may learn to sit 

up straight, 
Nor come too soon, 

nor stay too late, 
And always think to 

shut the gate 
At Tompkins's and 


On Friday, dusting-rag in hand, 

We hurry up the sweeping, 
And air the household furniture 
While Dolly still is sleeping. 
We dust the mantels 

and the chairs, 
The closet-shelves afld 

kitchen stairs, 

And shake the rugs 

and portieres 

Like truly-true 


On Saturday we bake our bread, 
Enough to last till Monday, 
With sugar-pies and apple- 

For Dolly's dinner 

With doughnuts round 

as napkin rings, 

And cookies fit for 

queens and kings — 

For oh! it takes just lots of 


To feed a dolly one day ! 

Vol. XXIIL— ii. 

By Garrett Newkirk. 

mMM'- J M^^M 

^ — _^3Jt\*A m£h=3u& '^^"tVS " 

■C^JV ^-^^^SSi^Sid^^ 


|& Wyoming to the south and east 
h Has famous pasture ground: 
Just on the corner, north and west, 
US 1 . The National Park is found 

I With mountains high and valleys deep, 
With springs, both hot and cold ; 
And marble walls and agate woods, 
All made by fires of old. 

The grandest things in all the world 

This region has in store; 
And Uncle Sam declared the land 

A park forevermore. 

The people favor equal rights — 
Both men and women vote : 

Wyoming State upon the map 
Is nearly square, you note. 


.J? * 

3' --—•Cz£r^€**& 

eg? J^ c ^&}> 

I *i CHE-YEN^, ^ j 


> 70 S~\ . I T. i 




By a mistake, which we regret very much, the name 
of the author of "The Dragonfly's Ball" was wrongly 
printed when that bright story in verse appeared in our 
September number. We now gladly correct the error — 
with all due apologies to our clever contributor — by 
stating that the author of the poem is Katherine Berry 

di Zerega. 

Andrews, Ind. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I was greatly interested in the 
article called " Carrier-Pigeons of Santa Catalina," in the 
September number of St. Nicholas, as I own a very 
pretty pair of carrier-pigeons. One is pale blue, with 
dark-blue feathers on its neck, wings, and tail. When 
it moves about the feathers on its neck change from a 
beautiful purple to green and blue. The other one is 
pink, with a pale-blue cast, and white in its wings and 
tail. They are young, and at this writing have their first 
eggs. They are not trained to fly far yet. I often won- 
dered what I should name them ; and out of the many 
names mentioned in St. Nicholas I have named the 
female "Vesta" and the male " Blue Tim." I also own 
a beautiful pair of old fantails that are snow-white, and 
they have young about a week old. A flock of these 
white fantails make a very pretty sight. I remain your 
constant reader, Alice C. B . 

Dear St. Nicholas : We are twins twelve years old, 
and we were born in Tokio, Japan. Our father is a mis- 
sionary in that country, and we have always traveled 
about with him. It is great fun to see all the heathen 
who try to push past each other going into the mission- 
house ; for each one wants to get in ahead of the other. 
They have long benches in the mission-house for the 
people to sit on, and those who get there first get a seat, 
but the later ones have to stand ; so that is why they all 
want to get there first. We have heard lots about the 
war between China and Japan, and of course we wanted 
Japan to win. We are visiting friends in America now, 
and Ave like it very much. We brought a little Japanese 
girl over here with us, and we like her very much ; she 
is our only good friend over in Japan. She thinks the 
American ways very odd, and it took her a very long 
time to learn English well enough to make people un- 
derstand her. Her name changed to English means 
" Light of the Morning." We think it is quite pretty, 
don't you? Mother and ourselves are going back to 
Japan in the fall. We remain your little friends, 

Dorothy and Elizabeth B . 

P. S. We can't write very well in English, but you will 
excuse that, dear old St. Nicholas. 

Lowville, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas : One day a friend and myself 
were riding our bicycles, when we met a drove of cows. 
We did not dare to pass them, so we took our bicycles 
over a fence, through a field, and a farmer's yard. 
When we were on the road again we looked for the cows, 
but they had gone. 

I am thirteen years old, and have taken you four years. 
You will always be just as dear to me as you are now, 
even if I live to be a hundred. Your loving friend, 

Julia M. D . 

Fork's Creek, Col. 

Dear St. Nicholas : Two years ago last Christmas 
my grandpa made my sister Louise and me a present of 
the St. Nicholas, and we have taken it ever since, and 
enjoy reading it very much. 

I have three sisters and a brother, and we are spend- 
ing this summer at my father's ranch, which is about 
twenty-five miles west of Denver. The nearest post- 
office to our ranch is about five miles away, and to reach 
it we have to go on horseback over a steep, rocky trail. 
When we get within a mile of the post-office we turn 
down, a deep gulch. We ride down the bed of the creek 
quite a way, and then tie our horses and walk the rest of 
the way. There are great, high mountains all around 
our house ; and right in front of it is a spruce-tree which 
is about eighty feet high. 

A while ago we used to go out and get great bunches 
of columbines, but it is rather late for them now. There 
are lots of stumps of trees around here, and the birds 
build their nests in them. One day we found a turtle- 
dove's nest with three eggs in it. We used to go and 
look at it almost every day. One day we went to see it, 
and found, instead of the eggs, three little birds without 
any feathers on them ; and a little later, when we went to 
see them, they had all flown away. 

I remain yours truly, 

Madeleine S . 

Louisen Schloss, Homburg-v.-d.-H6he, 


Dear St. Nicholas : The other day we were watch- 
ing a wasp run up and down the window, faster each 
time, in wasp's fashion, of course trying to get out. After 
many vain attempts it fell suddenly on to the window-sill, 
buzzing and beating it with its wings in a very wild way. 
Then it lay perfectly still, and we thought it was dead. 
In the evening we were standing by the open window 
enjoying the cool air after a hot day, when, wanting to 
throw the dead wasp out, we found that it was fastened. 
The creature in its fury, probably at not being able to 
get out, had wedged its sting so firmly into the wood 
that it was unable to pull the sting out again. It just 
shows the great strength such a tiny animal has. 

I thought this little incident might interest your read- 
ers, so I write, hoping to see it printed soon. 

Your faithful reader, L. E. R . 

Warminster, Wilts, England. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl nine years 
old. I thought I would write and tell you how much 
we like your magazine, the stories in it are so nice. I 
have just been reading "Jack Ballister's Fortunes." I 
have a little brother and a little sister. We live in Wilt- 
shire, at a little town called Warminster, quite close to 
the downs. It is so nice on the downs we often go up 
there. It is nothing but green hills for miles and miles. 
Sometimes people lose their way if they are on the 
downs when it is foggy or dark. We used to live in 
Salisbury. There is a beautiful cathedral there which 
has the highest spire in England. The downs near here 
are called Salisbury Plain. Stonehenge is on Salisbury 
Plain. It is said to have been a Druids' temple. The 



stones are so large that no one can think how they were 
put there. They were once all standing up in a circle, 
but most of them have fallen down. 

Your loving little reader, Kathleen C . 

Oakland, Cal. 
Dear St. Nicholas : Mama has taken your magazine 
twenty years for my sister who is now married, and I 
always look forward to your coming with great impa- 
tience. I have a little dog named" Guy." I have taught 
him how to play hide-and-go-seek, tag, house, and to 
beg for his dinner. He is a cocker spaniel. We have 
had him since he was a little puppy, and lie is almost six 
years old now. The lady from whom we got him brought 
him herself all the way from New York to Oregon. 
Then he used to have a little red jacket and cap, and sit 
on a chair, put his paws on the back of the chair, bend 
his head and say his prayers. It was very cute, I think. 
I enjoy reading the letters from foreign lands, in your 
magazine, especially from Germany, as I am very fond 
of German. Hoping to see your magazine prosper for 
a long time to come, I am your loving and faithful little 
reader, Edna S. O . 

Elmira, N. Y. 
My dear St. Nicholas : I have taken you eight 
years, and my mama took you when you were " Our 
Young Folks." I have eight hundred stamps, and nearly 
as many traders. Wishing you a famous life, I remain 
yours, loving you like a friend, Edwin B. D -. 

Framingham, Mass. 
Dear St. Nicholas : We have been learning of the 
Japanese at school, so I am going to write and tell you 
about them. Japan is situated on four large and three 
small islands. The people always take off their sandals 
before they go into their houses. They sit on the floor 
almost all of the time, but some of the most modern have 
chairs and more furniture than the other people. They 
are very fond of bright colors. They wear blue and yel- 
low, mostly. Their shoes that they wear when it rains 
are called clogs; and they look something like little stools 
with two legs. They make their houses and furniture 
out of bamboo. They generally have only two rooms 
in their houses, and when they have a great deal of com- 
pany they put screens around the walls of the rooms, and 
leave a space between the wall and the screen large 
enough for some one to sleep. They eat rice. 

Your little friend, Alice C . 

Chicago, III. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I thought your readers would 
like to hear about my trip to Mexico. It took us five 
days to go to Mexico. We stayed at Hotel Iturbide 
first, and then we went to Orizaba. While we were at 
Orizaba we stayed over Palm Sunday. The children 
paraded around with palms in their hands ; and from 
our hotel window my brother and I saw three mountains 
on fire. And from there we went to Vera Cruz. It was 
so hot in Vera Cruz that my brother got sick, and we 
went up the mountains to Jalapa. There the streets 
were queer and narrow, and they were very steep, so 
that buggies could not go on them ; everything was 
carried on a donkey's back. From there we went to 
Puebla. When we were in Puebla it was Holy Week ; 
all the stores were closed, and people were having a 
nice time. And then we went to the city of Mexico. 
There we saw them on Good Friday burn images of 
Judas Iscariot on the streets. They put powder or fire- 
crackers in the images, and set fire to them. 

Your loving reader, Julia Helen D . 


Jefferson Pavilion, La. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I live on a rice-plantation 
about eighteen miles from New Orleans. I suppose 
you would like to hear how rice grows. In February 
or March the farmers plow the ground, and after that 
they sow and harrow the rice. When it is up they have 
to put water on it. The water is brought into the fields 
by means of pumps and siphons. If the Mississippi 
River is low the pumps are worked both day and night 
to keep the water by the levee for the siphons to take 
over the levee. If the river is high the siphons only are 
used. When the rice is about one foot high, people 
go in the field to pull the grass out. After that the rice 
is threshed and sent to New Orleans on boats. 

They also grow sweet and Irish potatoes, corn, pea- 
vines, and other things. 

A friend of mine, named Stuart L , lends you to 

me. The stories I like best are " President for One 
Hour," "A Boy of the First Empire," "Chris and the 
Wonderful Lamp," and "Fighting the Fire." Every 
evening my cousin and myself go swimming in the 
river. I have a horse named "Bill." I will close, 
wishing you don succes. 

Your monthly reader, Henry H . 

Green Mountain Falls, Col. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I saw, as I was reading your 
magazine for August, a letter to you from a little girl, 
who wrote that during the founding of Kentucky by 
Boone, his own daughter and two other girls were 
stolen by the Indians ; and as I was reading it, mama 
said that one of those other girls (Elizabeth Calloway) 
was my great-great-grandmother, and that the Indians 
stole the girls to have them teach the Indians how to 
make butter. 

I am sorry I don't know more about them, but I 
don't. Your affectionate reader, 

Susie S . 

Copalis, Wash. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am spending my vacation 
at the North Beach near Boon Creek. 

Half a mile from us is the Copalis Rock, which is 
half a mile out in the Pacific Ocean. 

On July 21 the tide was so low that I, with a party of 
others, touched it. 

On top of it is a house made to shoot the sea-otters 

Last week some of the Indians went out in their 
canoes, and brought in three sea-otters, which are valued 
at from three hundred and fifty dollars upward apiece. 

One day we drove up the beach twelve miles to 
Grandville Point, and the scenery was beautiful all 
the way — high cliffs rising up on one side, with the 
ocean on the other side. 

There is a rock with an arch through it, and another 
rock that is very high and large, and has a great many holes 
in it, in which the sea-birds, sea-parrots, and sea-pigeons 
build their nests. The swells come up behind some 
of the smaller rocks, and then break over them in foam ; 
and then the water runs down in little cascades and 
little waterfalls. 

I have gathered a great collection of moonstones, 
agates, and shells. Your loving reader, 

Fanny W. P . 

Fredericksburg, Va. 

Dear St. Nicholas : We have been living in Fred- 
ericksburg a little over a year, and find it a very old- 
fashioned town, having a good many relics of the war. 

A little while ago papa found an old bayonet stuck in 
a tree-stump, about three miles out of town. 



The National Cemetery, the site of the great battle of 
Fredericksburg, is beautifully kept by the United States 
Government, and contains the graves of about fifteen 
thousand soldiers. 

One woman who lived next the battle-field said that 
the night after the battle was fought the field was blue 
with Union soldiers. 

I live only two doors from the house where George 
Washington's mother lived; and two squares below us 
is a big stone with a step cut into it which is worn down 
by the number of negroes who stepped up there to be sold 
at auction. 

I am a Northern girl, so it is all very queer to me, es- 
pecially the great number of negroes. It seems to me 
as if there are about four negroes to every white man. 

Mama says she has either bought or subscribed for 
the St. Nicholas for twenty years. 

Hoping to see this letter in print, 

I remain your admirer, Beatrice V . 

Vera, Kansas. 

Dear St. Nicholas : This is the first year I have 

taken you, and I think you are a fine magazine. I live in 

Kansas, on a ranch, where you can see thousands and 

thousands of horses and cattle every day. In the fall 

we cut up fodder — that is, the corn; husks and stalks 
are all cut up by steam-power when green, and kept un- 
til winter for cattle. We store the fodder in a large 
shed where in the winter time we keep all the imple- 
ments that are used in the summer. The ranch is 
called the "Q. G." ranch, because some years ago, when 
branding cattle was greatly done, this was our brand. 

I would rather live on a ranch than in a city, for when 
I visit a city I always feel so cramped up, some way, and 
I long for the country again. When my papa ships his 
loads of cattle and hogs, I love to watch the ranchmen 
load them at the stock-yards. 

I remain your loving reader, BENJAMIN J. B . 

We thank the young friends whose names follow for 
pleasant letters received from them : Grace Guernsey, 
Hortense Heath, Cyrus Brewster, Jr., Leila R., F. X. 
Williams, "Virginia," Blanche E. Sayre, R. J. Clemens, 
Louisa Pearce, Bessie R. T. , Margaret A. M., Bessie 
Moulton, Pansy K., Dora, May C, J. Leoni P., Bella 
Mehler, Emma Stuver, Will B. Weston, Y. Ethel B., 
Eleanor Haywood, Helen Van A. Schuyler, Rosamond 
Underwood, Mabel W., Mamie Baird, Elsie W., Con- 
stance E. Bradford, Beth Opp. 

Bi.,H~.ll-'» " ? 


rhinoceros. " Come on, Gi, let's buy tickets." 
giraffe. "Why waste your money?" 

; 7/> f \ '"l/vi? fi,£y£ 4--C-- p\ . ; ")X>, !".'■, :"' /V 1 * a/xa, /^cka acxa /*jxxa i'IAxx < 

.MP ' 

6I>« RIDDI(€ BOX. 





' '-."V ~ ; 

" is- -^W 

: r\ _~^-l 







2. Corn-et. 3. A-corn. 

6. Corn- 


7. Corn-ice. 

ouse. 2. Sense. 
Parts. 8. Error. 
13. Vixen. 

3. Laden. 
9. Adder. 



2. Eat. 

3. Rave. 4. Eve. 





Hiddev Grains of Corn. — 1. 
4. Barry Corn-wall. 5. Corn-er. 

Zigzag. Mediterranean. 1. Mo 
Merit. 5. Treat. 6. Comet. 7. 
Annoy. 11. Freed. 12. Cream. 

Quincunx. Across: 1. Lear. 

Word-Sqi'Are. 1. Scrap. -2.. Chair. 3. Raise. 4. Aisle. 

Intersecting Words. From 1 to 
5 to 6, dinners. Cross-words: 1. Gradual. 2. Broiled. 
4. Slander. 5. Quieted. 6. Entries. 7. Guessed. 

Illustrated Diagonal. Kolmes. Crosswords: 1. Hornet. 2. 
Bottle. 3. Collar. 4. Hammer. 5. Goblet. 6. Walrus. 

granted; 3 to 4, leaning; 
3. Granary. 

Numerical Enigma. " There is this difference between happi- 
ness and wisdom ; he who thinks himself the happiest man, really 
is so; while he who thinks himself the wisest man, is generally the 
greatest fool." 

Backwards and Forwards, i. Revel. 2. Spool. 3. Tuber. 
4. Garb. 5. Drab. 6. Golf. 7. Live. 8. Slap. 9. Ward. 10. 

Diamonds Connected by a Square. I, 1. T. 2. Rat. 3. 
Rapid. 4. Tapered. 5. Tiron. 6. Den. 7. D. II. 1. W. 2. Tag, 
3. Tudor. 4. Watered. 5. Gored. 6. Red. 7. D. III. 1. Sedan, 

2. Early. 3. Drums. 4. Almes. 5. Nyssa. IV. 1. S. 2. Cap 

3. Capon. 4. Sapolio. 5. Polyp. 6. Nip. 7. O. V. 1. S. 
Pun. 3. Pages. 4. Sugared. 5. Nerve. 6. See. 7. D. 

To olr Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 15th, from " M. McG." — Paul Reese 

— G. B. Dyer — " Jersey Quartette " — "Three Drews and a Crew" — Paul Rowley — Horton C. Force — Florence and Flossie — Ken- 
neth C. Mcintosh — James Maynard, Jr. , and his Father — "Tod and Yam" — L. O. E. — C. E. Coit — Robert W. Haight — Helen O. Koerper 

— Mary Lester and Harry — Jo and I — Emily B. Dunning — Clive — Josephine Sherwood — Alexine — Sigoumey Fay Nininger — 
" Shrimp " — Ida and Eloise R. — " Camp Lake" — Isabel H. Noble — Clara A. Anthony — Charles Travis — Effie K. Talboys — " Dee and 
Co."— Mai E. Hackstaff— Geo. B. Fernald— " Fallsburg"— " The Trenton Trio"— "Jacobii"— Two Little Brothers— M. M. McG.— 
Blanche and Fred — "The Butterflies" — "The Kittiwake." 

Answers to Puzzles in the August Number were received, before August 15th, from Eliza H. F., 1 — "Wisdom," 2 
— "Brynhild," 2 — M. S. Turrill, 1 — May H. D. and Mary A. C, 1 — Mary K. Rake, 1 — E. A. Jobs, 1 — Robert M. Mathews, 1 — 
Ethel S. Clark, 1 — Wm. P. Bonbright, 3 — Mama and Nicholas, 9 — C. Lester Overfelt, 2 — Mary R. Page, 5 — Alfred Thomas Eas- 
ton, 1 — Eugene T. Walter, 1 —Florence Kiper, 1 — Donald Cole. 1 — Edgar Bamps, 1 — Nicholas C. Bleecker, 2 — G. A. Hallock, 2 — 
Laura M. Zinser, 9 — M. J. Philbin, 6 — "She and I," 7 — " Hollyberries," 5 — Grace Busenback, 2 — Helen Smith, 5 — Bonnie B., 2 

— Clarence Anderson, 1 — E. and B., 8 — I. Honora Swartz, 6 — Earl and Mabel Jackson, 4 — "The Wicked Six," 8 — Bob Bright, 7 — 
Mortimer F. S., 7 — Emily R. H., 1 — " Mu Alpha," 7 — Gertrude Klein, 5 — " Buttercup and Daisy," 5 — Chrissie F., 1 — Edith Vande- 
grift Ivens, 8 — F. Goyeneche, 1 — " Merry and Co.," 9 — " M. E. I. B.," 2 — Helen W. Holbrook, 1 — " Conanicut," 9 — " Knott Innit," 
6 — G. B. D. and M., 6 — Dickson H. Leavens, 3— "Clarissa Starrs," 6— E. C. C. E., 7— "Tip-cat," 9 — W. Y. Webbe, 5 — E. V. 
K. t 4 — Marguerite Sturdy, 7 — Frankly n Farnsworth, 8. 


I. A glossy fabric. 
Dogma. 4. Lifeless. 

2. Part of an amphitheater. 
5. Spruce. 



What heights unsealed, what depths explored, 
What dangers braved my first to gain ! 
Men risk their lives, nay, sell their souls, 
In the mad strife, so often vain. 

My second looks to Tubal Cain, 
If not for ancestry, for art, 
And every nation, every age, 
Assigns to him a useful part. 

My whole } — how tenderly we scan 
The foibles of this gifted man ! 
In not another can we find 
The fun and pathos so combined. 

M. J. W. 

leave the hero of a novel. 7* Take a p from a fruit, and 
leave a valuable organ. 8. Take a p from an adherent 
to a party, and leave a mechanic. 9. Take a p from a 
surgeon's instrument, and leave a dress of state. 10. 
Take a p from a preacher, and leave a crime. II. Take 
a p from to trifle with, and leave to change. 12. Take 
a p from an allegory, and leave fit for plowing or tillage. 

13. Take a p from roasted over a fire, and leave curved. 

14. Take a p from part of a horse's foot, and leave be- 
hind a ship. julia b. c. 


Across: i. Dishonor. 2. To eat into or away. 3. 
Heroic poems. 4. A long, pliable strip of leather. 5. 
An important vegetable product. 

Downward: i. In furnish. 2. A pronoun. 3. A 
verb. 4. Kitchen implements. 5. Prepares for publi- 
cation. 6. Having the color of unbleached stuff. 7. 
To settle from a vertical position. 8. A childish name 
for a parent. 9. In furnish. 



Example : Take a p from a certain shrub, and leave 
an iron pin. Answer, p-rivet. 

1. Take a p from a wild animal, and leave part of a 
flower. 2. Take a p from an atom, and leave a particu- 
lar thing. 3. Take a p from tropical trees, and leave a 
gift of charity. 4. Take a p from a jewel, and leave a 
nobleman. 5. Take a p from a certain country, and 
leave another country. 6. Take a p from a bird, and 


I. 1. Anything small. 2. An ecclesiastical head- 
dress. 3. A fertile spot. 4. Stumbles. 5. A beast 
of burden. 

II. 1. A chart. 2. Land belonging to a nobleman. 3. 
Imbecile. 4. Impelled by the use of a pole. 5. A color. 

III. 1. To force in. 2. Swift. 3. A common fruit. 
4. A city of Italy. 5. A lair. "SAMUEL SYDNEY." 





When the four objects in the accompanying illustra- 
tion have been rightly guessed, and the names (which 
are of unequal length) written one below the other, the 
final letters will spell the name of a famous 
English Quaker. 






I. A letter. 2. A swamp. 3. One of a 
wandering tribe. 4. The musical scale. 5. 
A coin. 6. A small drum. 7. A memento. 
S. To be disobedient to authority. 9. The 
principal post at the foot of a staircase. 10. 
Lawful. 11. Pertaining to Latium. 12. A 
lampoon. 13. A price free from any deduc- 
tions. 14. A letter. 



" 1-2 does not consider that apples 2-3-4 be- 
low 1-2-3 even in strawberry time, so I will 
1-2-3-4 a few for sauce," said 6-7-8 fond 
daughter of an aged 1-2-3-4-5-6. This she 
did, and afterward sewed up 2 3-4-5-6 in his 
coat. 7-8 said, "That 10-11 well done, 9-10- 
11." (She was still at school.) But perhaps 
that would have been understood without the 
1-2-3-4-5-6-7-S-9-10-1 1. 



Insert, in place of the stars, the name of 
a poem by the author whose name follows : 
One hot morning * * * * * * * * 

* * * ******** (Mrs. Browning) 
next door led me to ask their tired mother 
to let me take some of her little girls for a 
day * * *** ***** (Bryant). 
She gratefully complied with my request, and 
immediately called " * * * * " (Tennyson) 
"****" (Tennyson) "****" (Hood) 
and" *********" (Coleridge) "get 
ready at once," cheerfully adding, "You will 
meet ****** ** *** **** 
(Mrs. Browning), and she may go also." 

My party was growing very large for the size of my 
lunch-basket, but knowing that there was another girl, I 
asked, " Does ****** **** (R. Browning) to 
join us ? " " No," said her mother, " but you can let 

* * * ******* ******** (Tennyson) 
take her place." 

We waited long in the lane by the mill , and at length we 
started, Bertha gaily singing ** *** ***** 
(Wordsworth) as we filed over the bridge into the woods. 

Then began our trials. It was noon, * * * * * *- 

****** **** (Longfellow) for lunch, and not 
till then did we learn that, in the confusion of starting, 
our well-stocked lunch-basket had been forgotten. We 
wandered on in the dense woods, the children tired 
and thirsty. We could find no spring, — not even * * * 

***** (Longfellow) we had lately crossed. 

The little hot hands were *** ***** 

* * *** ******* (Bryant) they 
picked. We passed *** ******* 
***** (George Eliot) and * * * »- 
***** *** (Whittier) wearing a 
ragged * * * ******** (Burns), and 
though * * * ********* (Trow- 
bridge) did not molest us, they frightened the 

Just here, to my joy, we met * * * *- 
*** **** * ******* 

* * * * (Ingelow) who was ******* 
**** *** **** (Kate Putnam 
Osgood). By liberal payment I induced her 
to sell me a pail of milk, which 1 * * »- 

* * * * (Ingelow) among my thirsty 
troop. Next came * ****** ***** 
(Lowell) and drenched us to the skin. Gladly 
would I have sent in my *******- 

* * * * (Longfellow) while leading what 
proved to be a stormy * * * * * (Bry- 
ant) toward home, which we finally reached 
in safety, though quite exhausted by * * * 
********* (Wordsworth). 



To make me, you have only to breathe ; 

Behead me, and still I 'm a breath ; 

Beheaded again, a man I become 

Who revels in pillage and death. 

To cut off his head is surely no wrong 

When quickly to wrath I transmute; 

Another head lost, and when money you lend, 

The interest I teach to compute. 

The last head removed, I 'm a goddess of 

Who follows where discord and mischief are 

rife. M. E. SAFFOLD. 


I » 

j * * * * 4 

From 1 to 2, a daughter of Pyrgeus, from 
whom the town of Lepreum in Elis was said 
to have derived its name ; from I to 3, the mother of Apollo 
and Diana ; from 2 to 4, the god of song and music ; from 
3 to 4, one of the Eumenides; from 5 to 6, the goddess of 
the morning ; from 5 to 7, a Latin hero, who fought on 
the side of Turnus against ^Eneas ; from 6 to 8, the open 
spaces where the gladiators fought ; from 7 t0 8, sea- 
nymphs ; from 1 to 5, the moon ; from 2 to 6, a grand 
division of the earth ; from 4 to 8, a growth of which 
Ceres is goddess ; from 5 to 7, the son of Faunus, who 
was killed by Polyphemus. Hulme. 



Vol. XXIII. 

DECEMBER, 1895. 

No. 2. 


By Robert Louis Stevenson. 



I suppose there are few boys and girls who 
have not heard of Robert Louis Stevenson, 
the great author. It was Mr. Stevenson's good 
fortune that his books should not only be 
widely read and admired, but that, as they read 
first one and then another, people began to 
like the man who wrote them, until he became 
not a mere name on the title-page, but the in- 
visible member of many households and the 
personal friend of those who had never seen 
him ; so that at last, when death stopped his 
pen forever, the light grew dim in many a 
pleasant home and the world seemed emptier 
to thousands who speak the English tongue. 

It is due to this wide-spread feeling that the 
Editor of St. Nicholas has obtained for the 
magazine, in the belief that they will interest 
its young readers, a number of Mr. Steven- 
son's letters to his ward, Austin Strong, and 
to several little girls in England. These let- 
ters were not written for publication, and were 
not expected to have more of a circulation than 
perhaps among Master Austin's chums, or the 
mamas and favorite aunts of the little English 

Copyright, 1895, by The Cent 

lasses ; but now they have been unearthed 
from desk and locker, to be read again in a 
bigger play-room than their author dreamed 
of. And as you read them you will wonder 
about this " Vailima" plantation, and the brown 
men and black; and how it was that Mr. Ste- 
venson came to live in so outlandish a country, 
so far from civilization that nobody goes there 
except good missionaries, and other white men 
(not always so good) who barter cotton-print 
and knives and kerosene oil for dried cocoanut 
kernels. And you will wonder too, doubtless, 
as to this Master Austin — whether he had a 
gun or a pony, and whether he had lessons 
every day, and did sums, as little boys must 
everywhere, even in those far-off isles of the 
Pacific Ocean. 

Mr. Stevenson knew as little as you do about 
Samoa and the remote South Seas when, several 
years ago, he came to San Francisco and set 
sail in a beautiful schooner yacht, hoping the 
Trade Wind would blow him to some pleasant 
isle where he might get well and strong again. 
The " Shining Ship " (for that was what the 
natives called her) poked her sharp nose into 
many a sweet bay and dark-blue lagoon, and 

URY Co. All rights reserved. 

9 2 



passed from island to island through calm and 
storm, and picked her way through surf-swept 
reefs where the sharks played like minnows be- 
neath her keel, but she came no nearer the 
haven for which she was in search. At last she 
reached an island called Oahu, which was so 
pleasant to look at, and so agreeable to live in, 
that Mr. Stevenson thought his voyage was 
over. The King of Oahu was a very agreeable 
man, too, and wished Mr. Stevenson never to 
go away, but to stay with him all his life and 
be his friend. So Mr. Stevenson stayed many 
months in Oahu, and would have been very 
happy and contented had it not been for the 
Trade Wind, who was always telling him about 
the fine islands further on, until he was per- 
suaded to say good-by to the king and set sail 
again. The Trade Wind took him a long road 
and through many queer and dangerous places 
before he brought him within sight of Upolu in 
Samoa, and told him to pack up and go ashore ; 
which Mr. Stevenson was very glad to do, for he 
quite agreed with the Trade Wind that Upolu 
was the finest island in the whole ocean. Here 
he bought a large tract of land, which he called 
" Vailima," and built a big house, and planted 
bananas and breadfruit trees and cocoanuts and 
mangos and other trees with strange names, in 
order to feed the brown people who gathered 
about him and made him the head of their 
tribe. They called him " Tusitala," or the 
"Writer of Tales," for his own name was too 
hard for them to say. In a short time Mr. 
Story-teller grew well and strong, just as he 
hoped he would, and remained grateful all his 
days to the Trade Wind for bringing him to 
Upolu ; and he always made a point of speak- 
ing kindly about it in his books. 

The first three letters are to some little girls 
in a Convalescent Home in England, where a 
friend of Mr. Stevenson's had a share in the 
management of the institution. This lady 
used to hear so frequently of the " boys " in 
Vailima, that she wrote and asked Mr. Steven- 
son for news of them, as it would so much 
interest her little girls. In the tropics, for 
some reason or other that it is impossible to 
understand, servants and work-people are al- 
ways called " boys," though the years of Me- 
thuselah may have whitened their heads, and 

great-grandchildren prattle about their knees. 
Mr. Stevenson was amused to think that his 
" boys," who ranged from eighteen years of 
age to three score and ten, should be mistaken 
for little youngsters ; but he was touched to 
hear of the sick children his friend tried so 
hard to entertain, and gladly wrote a few let- 
ters to them. He would have written more 
but for the fact that his friend left the home, 
being transferred elsewhere. 

In Samoa the name " black boy " is used 
to distinguish the negroes of the New Hebri- 
dean, Solomon, and New Guinea archipelagos 
from the Samoan natives, whose color is scarcely 
darker than that of a Spaniard or a South 
Italian. " Bush " is another South Sea word, 
and is applied to the high, dense forest that 
covers all but a few square miles of Samoa. 


Vailima Plantation. 
" Dear Friend : 

" Please salute your pupils in my name, and 
tell them that a long, lean, elderly man who 
lives right through on the underside of the 
world, so that down in your cellar you are 
nearer him than the people in the street, desires 
his compliments. 

" This man lives in an island which is not very 
long and is extremely narrow. The sea beats 
round it very hard, so that it is difficult to get 
to shore. There is only one harbour where 
ships come, and even that is very wild and dan- 
gerous ; four ships of war were broken there a 
little while ago, and one of them is still lying on 
its side on a rock clean above water, where the 
sea threw it as you might throw your fiddle-bow 
upon the table. All round the harbour the town 
is strung out : it is nothing but wooden houses, 
only there are some churches built of stone. 
They are not very large, but the people have 
never seen such fine buildings. Almost all the 
houses are of one story. Away at one end of 
the village lives the king of the whole country. 
His palace has a thatched roof which rests upon 
posts; there are no walls, but when it blows 
and rains, they have Venetian blinds which 
they let down between the posts, making all 
very snug. There is no furniture, and the king 





and the queen and the courtiers sit and eat on 
the floor, which is of gravel : the lamp stands 
there, too, and every now and then it is upset. 

" These good folk wear nothing but a kilt 
about their waists, unless to go to church or for 
a dance on the New Year, or some great occa- 
sion. The children play marbles all along the 
street ; and though they are generally very jolly, 
yet they get awfully cross over their marbles, 
and cry and fight just as boys and girls do at 
home. Another amusement in country places 
is to shoot fish with a little bow and arrow. All 
round the beach there is bright shallow water, 
where the fishes can be seen darting or lying 
in shoals. The child trots round the shore, and 
whenever he sees a fish, lets fly an arrow, and 
misses, and then wades in after his arrow. It 
is great fun (I have tried it) for the child, and I 
never heard of it doing any harm to the fishes: 
so what could be more jolly ? 

" The road to this lean man's house is uphill 
all the way and through forests ; the trees are 
not so much unlike those at home, only here 
and there some very queer ones are mixed with 
them — cocoanut palms, and great trees that are 
covered with bloom like red hawthorn but not 
near so bright; and from them all thick creepers 
hang down like ropes, and ugly-looking weeds 
that they call orchids grow in the forks of the 
branches ; and on the ground many prickly 
things are dotted, which they call pineapples. 
I suppose everyone has eaten pineapple drops. 

" On the way up to the lean man's house, 
you pass a little village, all of houses like the 
king's house, so that as you ride by you can see 

everybody sitting at dinner, or, if it is night, lying 
in their beds by lamplight; because all the people 
are terribly afraid of ghosts and would not lie in 
the dark for anything. After the village, there 
is only one more house, and that is the lean 
man's. For the people are not very many and 
live all by the sea, and the whole inside of 
the island is desert woods and mountains. 
When the lean man goes into the forest, he 
is very much ashamed to own it, but he is al- 
ways in a terrible fright. The wood is so great, 
and empty, and hot, and it is always filled with 
curious noises : birds cry like children, and bark 
like dogs; and he can hear people laughing 
and felling trees ; and the other day (when he 
was far in the woods) he heard a sound like the 
biggest mill-wheel possible, going with a kind 
of dot-and-carry-one movement like a dance. 
That was the noise of an earthquake away 
down below him in the bowels of the earth; and 
that is the same thing as to say away up toward 
you in your cellar in Kilburn. All these noises 
make him feel lonely and scared, and he does n't 
quite know what he is scared of. Once when 
he was just about to cross a river, a blow struck 
him on the top of his head, and knocked him 
head-foremost down the bank and splash into 
the water. It was a nut, I fancy, that had fallen 
from a tree, by which accident people are some- 
times killed. But at the time he thought it was 
a Black Boy. 

"'Aha,' say you, 'and what is a Black Boy? '" 
Well, there are here a lot of poor people who 
are brought to Samoa from distant islands to 
labor for the Germans. They are not at all 




like the king and his people, who are brown 
and very pretty ; for these are black as ne- 
groes and as ugly as sin, poor souls, and in 
their own land they live all the time at war, 
and cook and eat men's flesh. The Germans 
make them work; and every now and then some 
run away into the Bush, as the forest is called, 
and build little sheds of leaves, and eat nuts and 
roots and fruits, and dwell there by themselves. 
Sometimes they are bad, and wild, and people 
whisper to each other that some of them have 
gone back to their horrid old habits, and 
catch men and women in order to eat them. 
But it is very likely not true ; and the most of 
them are poor, half-starved, pitiful creatures, 
like frightened dogs. Their life is all very well 
when the sun shines, as it does eight or nine 
months in the year. But it is very different 
the rest of the time. The wind rages then most 
violently. The great trees thrash about like 
whips; the air is filled with leaves and branches 
flying like birds; and the sound of the trees 
falling shakes the earth. It rains, too, as it 
never rains at home. You can hear a shower 
while it is yet half a mile away, hissing like a 
shower-bath in the forest ; and when it comes 
to you, the water blinds your eyes, and the cold 
drenching takes your breath away as though 
some one had struck you. In that kind of 
weather it must be dreadful indeed to live in 
the woods, one man alone by himself. And 
you must know that if the lean man feels afraid 
to be in the forest, the people of the island and 
the Black Boys are much more afraid than he; 
for they believe the woods to be quite filled 
with spirits; some like pigs, and some like flying 
things ; but others (and these are thought the 
most dangerous) in the shape of beautiful young 
women and young men, beautifully dressed in 
the island manner, with fine kilts and fine neck- 
laces, and crosses of scarlet seeds and flow- 
ers. Woe betide him or her who gets to speak 
with one of these ! They will be charmed out 
of their wits, and come home again quite silly, 
and go mad and die. So that the poor runa- 
way Black Boy must be always trembling, and 
looking about for the coming of the demons. 

" Sometimes the women-demons go down 
out of the woods into the villages, and here is 
a tale the lean man heard last year : One 

* " Come-a- 

of the islanders was sitting in his house, and 
he had cooked fish. There came along the 
road two beautiful young women, dressed as 
I told you, who came into his house, and asked 
for some of his fish. It is the fashion in 
the islands always to give what is asked, and 
never to ask folks' names. So the man gave 
them fish, and talked to them in the island 
jesting way. Presently he asked one of the 
women for her red necklace ; which is good 
manners and their way : he had given the fish, 
and he had a right to ask for something back. 
' I will give it you by and by,' said the wo- 
man, and she and her companion went away; 
but he thought they were gone very suddenly, 
and the truth is they had vanished. The night 
was nearly come, when the man heard the voice 
of the woman crying that he should come to 
her, and she would give the necklace. He 
looked out, and behold ! she was standing call- 
ing him from the top of the sea, on which she 
stood as you might stand on the table. At that, 
fear came on the man ; he fell on his knees and 
prayed, and the woman disappeared. 

" It was said afterward that this was once a 
woman, indeed, but she should have died a thou- 
sand years ago, and has lived all that while as 
an evil spirit in the woods beside the spring of 
a river. Sau-mai-afe* is her name, in case you 
want to write to her. 

" Ever your friend (for whom I thank the 
stars), "Tusitala (Tale-writer)." 

[Austin Strong, who is mentioned in the fol- 
lowing letter, and whose portrait is printed on 
page 96, was a ward of Mr. Stevenson's. His fate 
was a sad one ; for though his " fort" was stout, 
the palisade high, and his trusty air-gun and 
wooden sword lay ever within his reach, he was 
inopportunely captured and sent to Monterey 
in California, to labor like a black boy in the 
mental plantations of school. — L. O.] 


" Vailima Plantation, 14 Aug., 1892. 
"... The lean man is exceedingly ashamed 
of himself, and offers his apologies to the little 
girls in the cellar just above. If they will be 
so good as to knock three times upon the floor, 

i8 9 5-] 



v v^lkwt" ^^^ -* L/ U^«^«_ t ^ 

he will hear it on the other side of his floor, 
and will understand that he is forgiven. 

" I left you and the children still on the road 
to the lean man's house, where a great part of the 
forest has now been cleared away. It comes 
back again pretty quick, though not quite so 
high ; but everywhere, except where the weeders 
have been kept busy, young trees have sprouted 
up, and the cattle and the horses cannot be seen 
as they feed. In this clearing there are two or 
three houses scattered about, and between the 
two biggest I think the little girls in the cellar 
would first notice a sort of thing like a gridiron 

on legs, made of logs of wood. Sometimes it 
has a flag flying on it, made of rags of old 
clothes. It is a fort (as I am told) built by the 
person here who would be much the most in- 
teresting to the girls in the cellar. This is a 
young gentleman of eleven years of age, an- 
swering to the name of Austin. It was after 
reading a book about the Red Indians that he 
thought it more prudent to create this place 
of strength. As the Red Indians are in North 
America, and this fort seems to me a very use- 
less kind of building, I anxiously hope that the 
two may never be brought together. When 

The above portrait is enlarged from a small photograph, never before published. 

9 6 




Austin is not engaged in building forts, nor on 
his lessons, which are just as annoying to him 
as other children's lessons are to them, he 
walks sometimes in the Bush, and if anybody is 
with him, talks all the time. When he is alone 
I don't think he says anything, and I dare say 
he feels very lonely and frightened, just as the 
Samoan does, at the queer noises and the end- 
less lines of the trees. 

" He finds the strangest kinds of seeds, some 
of them bright-colored like lollipops, or really 
like precious stones ; some of them in odd cases 
like tobacco-pouches. He finds and collects all 
kinds of little shells with which the whole 
ground is scattered, and that, though they are 
the shells of land creatures like our snails, are 
of nearly as many shapes and colours as the 
shells on our sea-beaches. In the streams that 
come running down out of our mountains, all 
as clear and bright as mirror-glass, he sees 
eels and little bright fish that sometimes jump 
together out of the surface of the brook 
in a spray of silver, and fresh-water prawns 
which lie close under the stones, looking up at 

him through the water with eyes the colour of 
a jewel. He sees all kinds of beautiful birds, 
some of them blue and white, and some of 
them colored like our pigeons at home ; and 
these last, the little girls in the cellar may like to 
know, live almost entirely on wild nutmegs as 
they fall ripe off the trees. Another little bird 
he ma) - sometimes see, as the lean man saw him 
only this morning : a little fellow not so big as 
a man's hand, exquisitely neat, of a pretty 
bronzy black like ladies' shoes, who sticks up 
behind him (much as a peacock does) his little 
tail, shaped and fluted like a scallop-shell. 

" Here there are a lot of curious and interest- 
ing things that Austin sees all round him every 
day; and when I was a child at home in the 
old country I used to play and pretend to my- 
self that I saw things of the same kind — ■ that 
the rooms were full of orange and nutmeg 
trees, and the cold town gardens outside the 
windows were alive with parrots and with lions. 
What do the little girls in the cellar think that 
Austin does ? He makes believe just the other 
way: he pretends that the strange great trees 
with their broad leaves and slab-sided roots 
are European oaks ; and the places on the road 
up (where you and I and the little girls in the 
cellar have already gone) he calls old-fashioned, 
far-away European names, just as if you were 
to call the cellar-stair and the corner of the next 
street — if you could only manage to pronounce 
their names — Upolu and Savaii. And so it is 
with all of us, with Austin, and the lean man, 
and the little girls in the cellar : wherever we 
are, it is but a stage on the way to somewhere 
else, and whatever we do, however well we do 
it, it is only a preparation to do something else 
that shall be different. 

" But you must not suppose that Austin does 
nothing but build forts, and walk among the 
woods, and swim in the rivers. On the con- 
trary, he is sometimes a very busy and useful 
fellow ; and I think the little girls in the cellar 
would have admired him very nearly as much 
as he admired himself, if they had seen him 
setting off on horseback, with his hand on his 
hip, and his pocket full of letters and orders, at 
the head of quite a procession of huge white 
cart-horses with pack-saddles, and big, brown 
native men with nothing on but gaudy kilts. 




Mighty well he managed all his commissions ; 
and those who saw him ordering and eating his 
single-handed luncheon in the queer little Chi- 
nese restaurant on the beach, declare he looked 
as if the place, and the town, and the whole ar- 
chipelago belonged to him. 

" But I am not going to let you suppose that 
this great gentleman at the head of all his horses 
and his men, like the King of Fiance in the old 
rhyme, would be thought much of a dandy on 

in my last) would be thought rather a poor 
place of residence by a Surrey gipsy. And if 
you come to that, even the lean man himself, 
who is no end of an important person, if he 
were picked up from the chair where he is now 
sitting, and slung down, feet-foremost, in the 
neighborhood of Charing Cross, would probably 
have to escape into the nearest shop, or take 
the risk of being mobbed. And the ladies of 
his family, who are very pretty ladies, and think 

■ "'~ .. ■ . -I « 


the streets of London. On the contrary, if he 
could be seen with his dirty white cap and his 
faded purple shirt, and his little brown breeks 
that do not reach his knees, and the bare shanks 
below, and the bare feet stuck in the stirrup- 
leathers — for he is not quite long enough to 
reach the irons — I am afraid the little girls and 
boys in your part of the town might be very 
much inclined to give him a penny in charity. 
So you see that a very big man in one place 
might seem very small potatoes in another, just 
as the king's palace here (of which I told you 

themselves uncommon well-dressed for Samoa, 
would (if the same thing were to be done to 
them) be extremely glad to get into a cab. . . . 

•' Tusitala." 

[The German Company, from which we got 
our black boy Arick, owns and cultivates many 
thousands of acres in Samoa, and keeps at least 
a thousand black people to work on its plan- 
tations. Two schooners are always busy in 
bringing fresh batches to Samoa, and in taking 
home to their own islands the men who have 


9 8 

worked out their three years' term of labor. 
This traffic in human beings is called the " la- 
bor trade," and is the life's blood, not only 
of the great German Company, but of all the 
planters in Fiji, Queensland, New Caledonia, 
German New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, 
and the New Hebrides. The difference be- 
tween the labor trade, as it is now carried 
on under government supervision, and the 
slave trade is a great one, but not great 
enough to please sensitive pieople. In Samoa 
the missionaries are not allowed by the Com- 
pany to teach these poor savages religion, or 
to do anything to civilize them and raise them 
from their monkey-like ignorance. But in other 
respects the Company is not a bad master, and 
treats its people pretty well. The system, how- 
ever, is one that cannot be defended and must 
sooner or later be suppressed. — L. O.] 


"Vailima, 4th Sept., 1892. 
"Dear Children in the Cellar: I told 
you before something of the Black Boys who 
come here to work on the plantations, and some 
of whom run away and live a wild life in the 
forests of the island. Now I want to tell you 
of one who lived in the house of the lean man. 
Like the rest of them here, he is a little fellow, 
and when he goes about in old battered cheap 
European clothes, looks very small and shabby. 
When first he came he was as lean as a to- 
bacco-pipe, and his smile (like that of almost 
all the others) was the sort that half makes you 
wish to smile yourself, and half wish to cry. 
However, the boys in the kitchen took him in 
hand and fed him up. They would set him 
down alone to table, and wait upon him till 
he had his fill, which was a good long time 
to wait. The first thing we noticed was that 
his little stomach began to stick out like a 
pigeon's breast ; and then the food got a little 
wider spread, and he started little calves to his 
legs ; and last of all, he began to get quite 
saucy and impudent. He is really what you 
ought to call a young man, though I suppose 
nobody in the whole wide world has any idea 
of his age ; and as far as his behaviour goes, you 
can only think of him as a big little child with 
a good deal of sense. 


" When Austin built his fort against the Indi- 
ans, Arick (for that is the Black Boy's name) 
liked nothing so much as to help him. And 
this is very funny, when you think that of all 
the dangerous savages in this island Arick is one 
of the most dangerous. The other day, besides, 
he made Austin a musical instrument of the 
sort they use in his own country — a harp with 
only one string. He took a stick about three 
feet long and perhaps four inches round. The 
under side he hollowed out in a deep trench to 
serve as sounding-box ; the two ends of the 
upper side he made to curve upward like the 
ends of a canoe, and between these he stretched 
the single string. He plays upon it with a 
match or a little piece of stick, and sings to 
it songs of his own country, of which no per- 
son here can understand a single word, and 
which are, very likely, all about fighting with 
his enemies in battle, and killing them, and, I 
am sorry to say, cooking them in a ground- 
oven, and eating them for supper when the 
fight is over. 

" For Arick is really what you call a savage, 
though a savage is a very different sort of 
a person, and very much nicer than he is 
made to appear in little books. He is the 
kind of person that everybody smiles to, or 
makes faces at, or gives a smack as he goes 
by ; the sort of person that all the girls on 
the plantation give the best seat to and help 
first, and love to decorate with flowers and rib- 
bons, and yet all the while are laughing at him ; 
the sort of person who likes best to play with 
Austin, and whom Austin, perhaps (when he is 
allowed), likes best to play with. He is all grins 
and giggles and little steps out of dances, and 
little droll ways to attract people's attention 
and set them laughing. And yet, when you 
come to look at him closely, you will find that 
his body is all covered with scars I This hap- 
pened when he was a child. There was war, as 
is the way in these wild islands, between his vil- 
lage and the next, much as if there were war in 
London between one street and another; and 
all the children ran about playing in the middle 
of the trouble, and, I dare say, took no more 
notice of the war than you children in London 
do of a general election. But sometimes, at 
general elections, English children may get run 




over by processions in the street; and it chanced 
that as little Arick was running about in the 
Bush, and very busy about his playing, he ran 
into the midst of the warriors on the other side. 
These speared him with a poisoned spear; and 
his own people, when they had found him, in or- 


der to cure him of the poison scored him with 
knives that were probably made of fish-bone. 
" This is a very savage piece of child-life ; 
and Arick, for all his good nature, is still a very 
savage person. I have told you how the Black 
Boys sometimes run away from the plantations, 
and live alone in the forest, building little 
sheds to protect them from the rain, and some- 
times planting little gardens for food; but for 
the most part living the best they can upon 
the nuts of the trees and the yams that they 
dig with their hands out of the earth. I do 
not think there can be anywhere in the world 
people more wretched than these runaways. 
They cannot return, for they would only return 
to be punished ; they can never hope to see 
again their own people — indeed, I do not 
know what they can hope, but just to find 
enough yams every day to keep them from 
starvation. And in the wet season of the year, 
which is our summer and your winter, when 
the rain falls day after day far harder and 
louder than the loudest thunder-plump that 

ever fell in England, and the room is so dark 
that the lean man is sometimes glad to light 
his lamp to write by, I can think of nothing 
so dreary as the state of these poor runaways 
in the houseless bush. You are to remember, 
besides, that the people of the island hate and 
fear them because they are cannibals ; sit and 
tell tales of them about their lamps at night 
in their own comfortable houses, and are some- 
times afraid to lie down to sleep if they think 
there is a lurking Black Boy in the neighbor- 
hood. Well, now, Arick is of their own race 
and language, only he is a little more lucky be- 
cause he has not run away; and how do you 
think that he proposed to help them ? He 
asked if he might not have a gun. " What 
do you want with a gun, Arick ? " was asked. 
He answered quite simply, and with his nice, 
good-natured smile, that if he had a gun he 
would go up into the High Bush and shoot 
Black Boys as men shoot pigeons. He said 
nothing about eating them, nor do I think he 
really meant to ; I think all he wanted was to 
clear the plantation of vermin, as gamekeepers 
at home kill weasels or rats. 

"The other day he was sent on an errand 
to the German Company where many of the 
Black Boys live. It was very late when he 
came home. He had a white bandage round 
his head, his eyes shone, and he could scarcely 
speak for excitement. It seems some of the 
Black Boys who were his enemies at home 
had attacked him, one with a knife. By his 
own account, he had fought very well; but the 
odds were heavy. The man with the knife had 
cut him both in the head and back; he had 
been struck down ; and if some Black Boys of 
his own side had not come to the rescue, he 
must certainly have been killed. I am sure no 
Christmas box could make any of you children 
so happy as this fight made Arick. A great part 
of the next day he neglected his work to play 
upon the one-stringed harp and sing songs 
about his great victory. To-day, when he 
is gone upon his holiday, he has announced 
that he is going back to the German Firm to 
have another battle and another triumph. I 
do not think he will go, all the same, or I 
should be uneasy ; for I do not want to have 
my Arick killed; and there is no doubt that 



if he begin this fight again, he will be likely 
to go on with it very far. For I have seen 
him once when he saw, or thought he saw, an 

" It was one of those dreadful days of rain, 
the sound of it like a great waterfall, or like a 
tempest of wind blowing in the forest; and 
there came to our door two runaway Black 
Boys seeking refuge. In such weather as that 
my enemy's dog (as Shakspere says) should 
have had a right to shelter. But when Arick 
saw the two poor rogues coming with their 
empty stomachs and drenched clothes, one of 
them with a stolen cutlass in his hand, through 
that world of falling water, he had no thought 
of any pity in his heart. Crouching behind 
one of the pillars of the veranda, to which 
he clung with his two hands, his mouth drew 
back into a strange sort of smile, his eyes 
grew bigger and bigger, and his whole face 
was just like the one word MURDER in big 

" But I have told you a great deal too much 
about poor Arick's savage nature, and now I 
must tell you of a great amusement he had 
the other day. There came an English ship-of- 
war into the harbor, and the officers good- 
naturedly gave an entertainment of songs and 
dances and a magic lantern, to which Arick 
and Austin were allowed to go. At the door 
of the hall there were crowds of Black Boys 
waiting and trying to peep in, as children 
at home lie about and peep under the tent of 
a circus ; and you may be sure Arick was a 
very proud person when lie passed them all 
by, and entered the hall with his ticket. 

" I wish I knew what he thought of the whole 
performance; but a friend of the lean man, 
who sat just in front of Arick tells me what 
seemed to startle him most. The first thing 
was when two of the officers came out with 
blackened faces, like minstrels, and began to 
dance. Arick was sure that they were really 
black and his own people, and he was won- 
derfully surprised to see them dance in this 
new European style. 

" But the great affair was the magic lantern. 
The hall was made quite dark, which was very 
little to Arick's taste. He sat there behind my 
friend, nothing to be seen of him but eyes 
and teeth, and his heart was beating finely in 
his little scarred breast. And presently there 
came out on the white sheet that great bright 
eye of light that I am sure all you children 
must have often seen. It was quite new to 
Arick ; he had no idea what would happen 
next, and in his fear and excitement he laid 
hold with his little slim black fingers like a 
bird's claw on the neck of the friend in front 
of him. All through the rest of the show, 
as one picture followed another on the white 
sheet, he sat there grasping and clutching, and 
goodness knows whether he were more pleased 
or frightened. 

" Doubtless it was a very fine thing to see all 
those bright pictures coming out and dying 
away again, one after another; but doubtless it 
was rather alarming also, for how was it done? 
At last when there appeared upon the screen 
the head of a black woman (as it might be his 
own mother or sister), and this black woman 
of a sudden began to roll her eyes, the fear or 
the excitement, whichever it was, wrung out of 
him a loud, shuddering sob. I think we all 
ought to admire his courage when, after an 
evening spent in looking at such wonderful 
miracles, he and Austin set out alone through 
the forest to the lean man's house. It was 
late at night and pitch dark when some of 
the party overtook the little white boy and 
the big black boy, marching among the trees 
with their lantern. I have told you this wood 
has an ill name, and all the people of the isl- 
and believe it to be full of evil spirits ; it is a 
pretty dreadful place to walk in by the moving 
light of a lantern, with nothing about you but 
a curious whirl of shadows, and the black night 
above and beyond. But Arick kept his cour- 
age up, and I dare say Austin's, too, with a 
perpetual chatter, so that the people coming 
after heard his voice long before they saw 
the shining of the lantern. " Tusitala." 

( To be continued. ) 


By Harriet Allen. 


David Douglas wanted to be a street-car 
driver. That did not interfere in the least with 
his ambition to be a plumber with a bag of tools, 
or a doctor with a pocket-thermometer and a 
stop-watch. David was almost seven years old. 
He had been in love with the street-car profes- 
sion for at least a year ; and there was nothing 
he could n't tell you about that business which 
can be told to an outsider whose heart is not 
in it. 

Yet there was nothing remarkable about 
David. He could read and write as well as 
other boys of his age, and he spelled with less 
originality perhaps than most. He could run 
as fast, jump as far, and spin tops with the best. 
Although David had neither brother nor sister 

to play with, and no nursery full of toys, he 
managed to have a good deal of fun, and he 
had a rather manly sort of character. As to 
playfellows — nobody could excel his mother. 
She rode in his express-train, and had her 
ticket punched till there was nothing left of it ; 
and when the engineer struck a broken rail, 
she was a passenger in the wreck, and he 
bandaged her up with handkerchiefs and old 
string until you would n't have known her. 
Then, too, she had that rare faculty of know- 
ing, from a boy's point of view, a funny thing 
when she saw it — and sometimes they laughed 
together till the tears rolled down their cheeks. 

Then there was " Jack." I nearly forgot him. 
He was David's beloved dog. Jack was a 
short-haired yellow dog without pedigree or 
family connections — what might be called a 
self-made dog. He owed his present home 
and success in the world to self-respecting en- 
terprise and a kind heart. He was cheerful, fond 
of exercise and excitement, and always on hand. 

Now, David's father had a habit of reading 
aloud to David's mother before breakfast, from 
the morning paper. 

One morning, about three weeks before 
Christmas, David was transfixed by hearing his 
father read the following announcement : 


An Offer of the Street-Car Company. 

General Manager Miller, of the Citizens' Street- 
Railroad Company, said to-day that he had on hand 
thirty or forty old box street-cars which he would 
like to give away. The company has no further use 
for the cars. Mr. Miller suggests that the cars would 
make good play-houses for children. 

Do you wonder that such a notice sent Da- 
vid's appetite flying ? 

" Oh, papa," he cried, " let us get one of 
those cars ! " whereupon his father made big 
eyes of astonishment at David, and pretended 
to be absolutely upset by the mere suggestion 




of such an idea, and was in such wild haste to 
get out of reach of little boys who wanted to 
have full-grown, real street-cars for their very 
own, that David was unable to get in a se- 
rious word before he was gone. But David's 
eyes were shining and his fancy was building 


(SEE PAGE I05-) 

the most beautiful castles. He took his cap 
and disappeared with Jack. 

Some hours later he came in glowing from 
the cold air, and saying enthusiastically, " Mama, 
I know where we can put that car, if we should 
get it — in our side yard ! You can just come 
to the window and see ! There 's plenty of 
room — I 've marked it out on the snow." 

" My dear little boy ! Did you really think 
we could ask for one of those cars ? " 

David's face flushed ; he certainly had hoped 
so ; he had spent the morning thinking about 
it. " I did n't know," he faltered, with a sense 
of bereavement tugging at his heart. 

" That 's too bad! I do wish you could have 
one to play in, David ! " 
" Why can't I, mama ? " 
" It would cost too much, dear." 
" Cost too much ? Why, mama," he said, 
brightening up, " did n't you hear ? The paper 
said they would give them away." 

"So they will — but even a present is some- 
times expensive. You see, it would cost 
a great deal to bring a street-car all the 
way over here and set it up in our 

" Why, mama ? " and his lip trembled, 
— he did so want that car, — and it 
had looked so easy. 

" Because a street-car 
is so large and so 
heavy, it would take 
strong horses, and a 
great big truck, and 
ever so many men to 
move it, and all that 
costs money — a great 
deal of money." 

Very gently she con- 
vinced him that it was 
out of the question. If 
you could n't afford 
a thing — there you 
were ! Yet it seemed a 
thousand pities — thirty 
or forty cars to be given 
away ! It was very 
comforting at this point 
to have his mother 
thump him confidingly 
on the back, as she said that he was the bravest 
little man in all the world ; and to be asked what 
he expected Santa Claus to bring him, and whe- 
ther he meant to hang up Jack's stocking, too. 
David had a good many Christmas wishes ; 
a bob-sled for one thing, and skates, and a gun 
to shoot a dart; and he longed for a hook-and- 
ladder wagon, or, failing that, a police-patrol 
with a real gong on the front. It was quite 
impossible to choose, so he had sent the entire 

i8 9 s-: 



list to Santa Claus in a letter just to see what 
would happen. 

But that night, as his mother tucked him 
into bed, he held her back by the hand and 
said hesitatingly: "Mama, why could n't they 
bring the car around here on the track that 
runs in front of our house ? " 

" Because those cars have no wheels." 

" No wheels ! " 

" Not a wheel, sir! It would just be a help- 
less old car all the rest of its life," and she 
shook her hand free, gave him a little pat — a 
good-night kiss — and was gone. 


Not far from David there lived a little 
boy whose name was Harold Wolfing; he was 
not quite five years old. He was a sturdy little 
fellow, with dark hair and eyes, and a fine 
red in his cheeks ; and he carried his head 

is a matter I never heard discussed ; but cer- 
tainly they loved and petted him, and he had 
four aunties and three uncles — all of whom 
seemed really to lie awake nights thinking 
what they could give him next. 

Harold was very fond of having David come 
to play, and, it is needless to say, David was very 
fond of going. David liked nothing better than 
to ride the high-headed hobby-horse, and to 
work the fire-engine that squirted real water 
through a rubber hose. 

One day, not long before Christmas, David 
went to spend the afternoon with Harold. 
He found the chubby little man bending over 
his nursery table, busy with pencil and paper. 

" Do you know what I 'm doin', David ? 
I 'm writin' a letter ! " A moment was allowed 
for this fact to impress the smiling David, then 
— " Who do you think I 'm writin' to? " 

David said promptly that he could n't guess. 

(SEE PAGE 107.) 

and shoulders in quite a military fashion. He 
was fortunate enough to live in the same house 
with his grandmama and grandpapa. Whether 
they were equally fortunate in this arrangement 

" Santa Claus ! You can read it if you 
want to," added the writer condescendingly. 
David took the letter, which was covered with 
mysterious, wandering pencil-marks. He was 
quite embarrassed to know what to say to 
such a baby, who could not even print ; but 
Harold relieved him. " Can't you read, David ? " 
he said pityingly. " Here, I '11 read it to 
you." And he took the letter back into his 
fat little hand with an important air. After 
studying it very hard for a moment, he fixed 
David with his eye, saying : " It 's very long, 
David — but never mind, I '11 tell you what it 
says. It 's all about a street-car. You see, 


I had ; but you see this is 

I 'm goin' to have Santa Claus bring me a 
street-car for Christmas." He spoke of the 
arrangement with such assurance that David 
suddenly felt very young and inexperienced. 

" Yes," he went on, highly pleased with the 
impression he was making — " Yes, I 'm goin' 
to have a street-car. Perhaps you think it 's 
goin' to be little, like that ? " — pointing to a 
toy car. David did n't know. 

" Well, it is n't. It is a real car, and as large 
— oh, almost as large as this house ! You can 
come and play in it, David ; and I '11 take you 
to ride, all the way out to the park, and clear 
out — clear out to the end of the world — and 
I '11 drive as fast — oh, so you can hardly hold 
on! Only," — and he pulled in his fancy a 
little, lest David's go too far, — "you '11 be in- 
side, you know, and I '11 ring the bell when 
you pay me." Exciting as this picture was, 
David's mind flew back at once to the forty 
cars to be given away. Was Harold's car one 
of these? Hardly, he thought; since Harold 
looked to Santa Claus for his, and those cars 
belonged to the Street-Railroad Company. He 
decided to settle the doubt. " Where will 
Santa Claus get a street-car ? " he asked. Har- 
old gave him a look of astonished reproach. 

" Why, don't you know Santa Claus can get 
anything he wants, and he '11 bring it to you 
if you ask him, and if you 're good ? " 

David did know something very like this, 
and now on a sudden an idea flashed into 
his mind that made his heart jump and sent 
the color flushing up to his short yellow curls ; 
it was this : You see, if Santa Claus was giv- 
ing street-cars away, there was nothing to 
pay for hauling. No need of money at all ! 
You just wrote the right kind of a letter — and 
Santa Claus did the rest ! In that case he 
could have a car as well as Harold. 

That night when his early bed-time came, he 
handed his mother this letter to read : 

Dear Santa Claus Harold says you are going to 
bring him a Street-car. Wont you please bring me one 
to. Not a little one but a Real one. I am trying hard 
to be a good boy, and I want one very much. 

David Douglas. 

"Why, David," his mother said, "I thought 
you had given up the idea of having a street-car." 
Vol. XXIII.— 14. 

" Yes, mama, 
different ! " 

" Different ? " 

" Of course ! Don't you see ? " he explained 
joyously — " if Santa Claus brings it, it won't cost 
us any money at all — not even a cent! What 
makes you look so sad ? Don't you want me to 
have a car — even if Santa Claus brings it ? " 

" Yes, dear, of course I would like to see 
you have one, but — " 

" But what, mama ? " 

" You know, David, if children ask too much, 
Santa Claus must disappoint them." 

« Why ? " 

" Oh, for many reasons. You know mama 
has to say ' no ' sometimes, much as she dis- 
likes it." He began to look troubled ; then, 
suddenly recalling Harold's assurance, he took 
heart and said: " Harold's grandpapa told him 
if he wrote and asked Santa Claus for a car, 
he would get it — if he was a good boy; and 
I 'm sure if he brings Harold one, he will 
give me one too ; please let me ask him ! " 

" Will you promise not to be unhappy if 
it does n't come after all ? " Oh, yes ! He 
could promise that with a light heart. And 
next day the letter, laboriously copied in ink 
with high-headed " h's " and short-tailed " g's," 
was posted at " Harold's house " in a funny 
little Dutch house on the library-table. "Santa 
Claus comes down the chimbly and gets them," 
Harold explained. After that David's hopes 
ran sometimes high — sometimes low. In the 
latter state of mind he put the matter before 
Santa Claus again and again with such en- 
treaties and promises as desperate longing sug- 
gested. Here are some of the letters Santa 
Claus found in the little Dutch house : 

Dear Santa Claus Mama says a Street-car is too 
much, but I do want it so much, and I '11 be better than 
I ever was if you will please bring me one. David. 

Dear Santa Claus You need n't bring me a Bob- 
sled if you will only give me a Car. I can use my old 
sled till next Christmas. David Douglas. 

PS I will do without the Fireman's Helmet. 

D. D. 

Dear Santa Claus Please do bring me a Street- 
car. If I had a Car I would n't need a hook and Lad- 
der wagon. I will be very careful of it. Mama says 
I am a good boy. David Douglas. 




Dear Santa Claus Mama says I must n't expect a 
street-car. But I want it more than Skates or Anything. 
If it is to much to ask for — please do bring it anyway 
— and I will give up the Skates, and the Police-patrol, 
and everything. You can keep the gun to. 

Your loving David Douglas. 

P S Even if it was a little broken in some places it 
would do. I could mend it. I 've got a hammer and 
some nails. I pounded them out strate. I hope you 
will. Please leave it in our side yard. Good by. 

David Douglas. 


Christmas morning David woke early ; 
every one else was fast asleep. His windows 
looked out on the side-yard ; if he had a car it 
was there now. That thought was too much 
for him. He slid out of bed and ran to the 
window ; he had but to raise the shade ; his 
heart was beating so hard he could fairly hear 
it, and he almost made a little petition with his 
lips as he put out his hand. One touch — it 
was up ! He looked out upon a smooth, shin- 
ing surface of snow. There was no car ! The 
disappointment was too terribly desolating; he 
drew down the shade and crept back into bed, 
and there, since it was dark and no one would 
know, he shed a few hot, unhappy tears, fight- 
ing all the time against them, and never made a 
sound, although he could have sobbed aloud ; 
he remembered his mother and his promise. 
Then, at last, he wondered if Harold had been 
disappointed too. The more he thought of 
it the more likely it appeared. He wished 
Harold no ill luck — but if there had been no 
distribution of cars whatever, it would alter 
the case considerably : it would be as though 
he had reached for the moon. He began 
to make the best of it, and to wonder what 
Santa Claus had left in his stocking, so that 
later, when he came down-stairs, and his fa- 
ther swung him up to kiss him good-morning, 
saying, " Santa Claus slipped up on that car 
business, David, — must be he had no cars this 
year, — but your stocking looks pretty lumpy 
and tight," David was able to smile quite 
cheerfully. A Christmas stocking is a Christ- 
mas stocking, after all — mysterious and excit- 
ing — whatever your joys or sorrows. To Jack 
the queer shape was matter for suspicion, to be 
defied and barked at, as it divulged one secret 

after another; and when David tried on a fire- 
man's helmet and new skates, with a lot of 
lesser treasures scattered all about, Christmas 
seemed pretty cheery. 

Breakfast over, he and Jack set out, accor- 
ding to previous agreement, to see what Har- 
old had in his Christmas stocking. They went 
in by the carriage-way. Just as they took the 
first turn in the drive, David's heart gave a 
great jump and then stood still. Through the 
leafless lilac bushes he could see a great yellow 
and white street-car in the midst of a sea of 
snow. It was a beautiful, heart-breaking vi- 
sion; and there was Harold in brown reefer, 
leather cap, and leggings, leaning out of the car 
shouting, " Hello, David ! Hurry up ! this car 
is just ready to start — hurry! You see," he 
cried triumphantly, as David waded through 
the snow, " I told you Santa Claus was goin' 
to bring me this car — why don't you get in ? " 

David stood mute beside the step, stroking 
Jack's head. Then for the first time the little 
boy remembered that David had had hopes too. 

" Did you get a car ? " he asked. 

David's eyes filled ; he tried to smile, but he 
could not speak, and he only shook his head as 
he looked from Harold to Ellen. It was sel- 
dom Harold had to think of any one but him- 
self, but he had a kind heart, and now he be- 
stirred himself to make David happy. He let 
him work the change-slide and the doors, and 
gave him all coveted privileges. Then they 
went indoors to see the Christmas tree ; the can- 
dles were lighted and all the wonderful new toys 
displayed for David's benefit. There was some- 
thing on the tree for David, too. He flushed 
with pleasure and wonder when Harold's 
grandpapa handed down books, candy, and a 
dark-lantern, saying, with a twinkle in his eye, 
" Queer, these things were left here by mistake, 
David ! Santa Claus must walk in his sleep." 

But an hour or two later, as David went 
home, he was thinking that the ways of Santa 
Claus were very strange. His whole soul had 
been set upon a street-car; he was ready to 
give up everything else to have that one joy. 
Now Harold merely asked for that along with 
a lot of other new pleasures. Yet Santa Claus 
brought a car to Harold, and to David, none. 
It was matter to try the stoutest heart, yet he 

i8 95 .: 



was not envious. He had pluck and good 
sense and he felt somehow that he ought to be 
as happy as he could; he tried to think about 
his skates and fireman's helmet. After all, a 
street-car was a tremendous gift to ask, even of 
Santa Claus. He had realized when he stood 
beside that dear car that it was a good deal 
even for Harold, and Harold had so many 
treasures it was not easy to surpass them. The 
dark-lantern swung in his hand ; it was a com- 
fort, and he felt dimly that in a day or two he 
would play burglar and policeman with great 
effect ; but it could n't keep away a very chok- 
ing feeling in his throat when he remembered 
Harold winding up the brake. As he came 
around the corner near home with eyes fixed 
upon the slippery, trodden path, he had almost 
reached the house before he noticed that a part 
of the fence was down and wagon wheels had 
cut the frozen' crust of snow going through this 
opening into their yard. Before he could be 
surprised at this he came in full view of — 
what do you think ? — a broad strong truck, 
two strong gray horses with heads down, look- 
ing at him from their soft eyes, and blowing 
a little at the snow; four or five men standing 
about, and — well, of course you 've guessed it! 
There stood a street-car large as life ; a beauti- 
ful yellow and white car with No. n in gold 
figures on the side. A misty feeling swam before 
his eyes, through which the car seemed a beau- 
tiful dream, that somehow had men in rough 
overcoats, gray horses, all strangely woven in 
it as well as his mother smiling and holding 
her hands tight together, watching him. Then 
somebody said, " Well, sir, how do you like 
it ? " and David went forward with feet that 
hurried and yet seemed slow, — exactly like feet 
in a dream, — and somebody swung him up 
over the dashboard to the front platform and 
said, "Let me off at n 6th street, please, 
driver." And he found a big white placard 
hanging to the front brake, very neatly printed 
in black. David could spell out the words. 
They said, " For David Douglas from Santa 
Claus." And then David really came back to 
earth. He laughed and kissed his mother and 
held his father's hand in both his own ; he 

walked back and forth in the car, and took 
note of the familiar signs about no smoking 
and beware of pickpockets, and to use none 
but Quigley's Baking Powder. There was the 
cash-box and the brass slide for change in the 
front door. The brake worked and the bell- 
strap rang a real bell when his father held him 
up to reach it. " We '11 have to let that strap 
out a little, driver, till you get a taller con- 
ductor." Well, it was perfect! — surpassing all 
dreams of joy and Christmas. Indeed, a bit 
of Christmas cheer had fallen to those rough- 
coated men who worked on Christmas day, for 
they were drinking coffee and eating ginger- 
bread, and had cigars to smoke ; even the 
horses, David noticed through his joy, had 
each an apple to eat. And Jack — Jack lost 
his head completely, and barked, and jumped 
on everybody with his snowy feet, and finally 
just tore round and round in a circle like mad. 

Suddenly David's mother said, " Where is the 
letter, Tom? — did n't he give you a letter?" 

" To be sure ! I almost forgot the letter — 
let me see — here it is in this pocket"; and his 
father tore it open and began to read : 

My dear Douglas : I have taken the liberty of ask- 
ing Santa Claus to deliver one of our old cars on your 
premises. I was growing rusty, but Santa Claus has 
waked me up by showing me a one-sided correspondence 
he 's been having with a young man by the name of 
David. I suddenly realized what a world of fun there 
was in Christmas, if you only knew how to get hold of 
it by the handle, as my grandfather used to say. I hope 
you and Mrs. Douglas will forgive me for getting my 
pleasure first and asking permission afterward. But 
when a man takes a holiday I suppose he may be allowed 
to take it in his own way. So please put this street-car 
into David's stocking ! And I think this may not be 
a bad occasion for saying I 've never forgotten the time 
your mother made Christmas in my heart when I was 
a poor youngster with scarcely a stocking to hang. God 
bless you ! You have a fine boy. 

Very truly yours, John Miller. 

P. S. That correspondence is a confidential matter be- 
tween Santa Claus and me. No questions answered at 
this office. J. M. 

David wondered why his mother, who had 
been reading the letter over his father's arm, 
turned suddenly, while she was smiling, and 
cried on his father's shoulder. 

There was once a girl named Betty Leices- 
ter, who was known first to the readers of St. 
Nicholas, and who afterward lived in a small 
square book bound in scarlet and white. I, 
who know her better than any one else does, 
and who know my way about Tideshead, the 
story-book town, as well as she did, and who 
have not only made many a call upon her 
Aunt Barbara and Aunt Mary in their charm- 
ing old house, but have even seen the house 
in London where she spent the winter : I, who 
confess to loving Betty a good deal, wish to 
write a little more about her in this Christmas 
story. The truth is that ever since I wrote the 
first story I have been seeing girls who re- 
minded me of Betty Leicester of Tideshead. 
Either they were about the same age or the 
same height, or they skipped gaily by me in a 
little gown like hers, or I saw a pleased look or 

a puzzled look in their eyes which seemed to 
bring Betty, my own story-book girl, right be- 
fore me. 

Now, if anybody has read the book, this 
preface will be much more interesting than if 
anybody has not. Yet, if I say to all new ac- 
quaintances that Betty was just in the middle 
of her fifteenth year, and quite in the middle 
of girlhood ; that she hated some things as 
much as she could, and liked other things with 
all her heart, and did not feel pleased when 
older people kept saying don't! perhaps these 
new acquaintances will take the risk of being 
friends. Certain tilings had become easy just 
as Betty was leaving Tideshead, where she had 
been spending the summer with her old aunts, 
so that, having got used to all the Tideshead 
liberties and restrictions, she thought she was 
leaving the easiest place in the world; but 



when she got back to London with her father, 
somehow or other life was very difficult indeed. 

She used to wish for London and for her cro- 
nies, the Duncans, when she was first in Tides- 
head ; but when she was in England again she 
found that, being a little nearer to the awful 
responsibilities of a grown person, she was not 
only a new Betty, but London — great, busy, 
roaring, delightful London— was a new Lon- 
don altogether. To say that she felt lonely, 
and cried one night because she wished to go 
back to Tideshead and be a village person 
again, and was homesick for her four-posted 
bed with the mandarins parading on the cur- 
tains, is only to tell the honest truth. 

In Tideshead that summer Betty Leicester 
learned two things which she could not under- 
stand quite well enough to believe at first, but 
which always seem more and more sensible to 
one as time goes on. The first is that you 
must be careful what you wish for, because if 
you wish hard enough you are pretty sure to 
get it ; and the second is, that no two people 
can be placed anywhere where one will not 
be host and the other guest. One will be in a 
position to give and to help and to show ; the 
other must be the one who depends and re- 
ceives. , 

Now, this subject may not seem any clearer 
to you at first than it did to Betty; but life sud- 
denly became a great deal more interesting, and 
she felt herself a great deal more important to 
the rest of the world when she got a little light 
from these rules. For everybody knows that 
two of the hardest things in the world are to 
know what to do and how to behave; to know 
what one's own duty is in the world and how 
to get on with other people. What to be and 
how to behave — these are the questions that 
every girl has to face, and if somebody an- 
swers, " Be good and be polite," it is such a 
general kind of answer that one throws it away 
and feels uncomfortable. 

I do not remember that I happened to say 
anywhere in the story that there was a pretty 
fashion in Tideshead, as summer went on, of 
calling our friend " Sister Betty." Whether it 
came from her lamenting that she had no 
sister, and being kindly adopted by certain 
friends, or whether there was something in her 

friendly, affectionate way of treating people, 
one cannot tell. 

Betty Leicester, in a new winter gown which 
had just been sent home from Liberty's, with 
all desirable qualities of color, and a fine ex- 
panse of smocking at the yoke, and some 
sprigs of embroidery for ornament in proper 
places, was yet an unhappy Betty. In spite 
of being not only fine, but snug and warm 
as one always feels when cold weather first 
comes and one gets into a winter dress, every- 
thing seemed disappointing. The weather was 
shivery and dark, the street into which she was 
looking was narrow and gloomy, and there was 
a moment when Betty thought wistfully of 
Tideshead as if there were no December there, 
and only the high, clear September sky that 
she had left. Somehow, all out-of-door life 
appeared to have come to an end, and she 
felt as if she were shut into a dark and wintry 
prison. Not long before this she had come 
from Whitby, the charming red-roofed York- 
shire fishing-town that forever climbs the hill 
to its gray abbey. There were flocks of young 
people at Whitby that autumn, and Betty had 
lived out-of-doors in pleasant company to her 
heart's content, and tramped about the moors 
and along the cliffs with gay parties, and 
played golf and cricket, and helped to plan 
some great excitement or lively excursion for 
almost every day. There is a funny, dancing- 
step sort of walk, set to the tune of " Humpty- 
Dumpty," which seems to belong with the 
Whitby walking-sticks which everybody car- 
ries; you lock arms in lines across the road, 
and keep step to the gay chant of the dismal 
nursery lines, and the faster you go, especially 
when you are tired, the more it seems to rest 
you (or that 's what some people think) in the 
long walks home. Whitby was almost as good 
as Tideshead, to which lovely town Betty now 
compared every other, even London itself. 

Betty and her father had not yet gone to house- 
keeping by themselves (which made them very 
happy later on), but they were living in some 
familiar old Clarges Street lodgings convenient 
to the Green Park, where Betty could go for 
a consoling scamper with a new dog called 
"Toby" because he looked so exactly like the 




beloved Toby on the cover of Punch. Betty- 
had spent a whole morning's work upon a 
proper belled ruff for Toby, who gravely sat 
up and wore it as if he were conscious of lit- 
erary responsibilities. 

Papa had gone to the British Museum that 
rainy morning, and was not likely to reappear 
before the close of day. For a wonder, he was 
going to dine at home that night. Something 
very interesting to the scientific world had 
happened to him during his summer visit to 
Alaska, and it seemed as if every one of his 
scientific friends had also made some discovery, 
or something had happened to each, which 
made many talks and dinners and club meet- 
ings delightfully important. But most of the 
London people were in the country; for in 
England they stay in the hot town until July 
or August, when all Americans scatter among 
green fields or seashore places ; and then spend 
the gloomy months of the year in their country- 
houses, when we fly back to the shelter and 
music and pictures and companionship of town 
life. This all depends upon the meeting of 
Parliament and other great reasons; but even 
Betty Leicester felt quite left out and lonely in 
town that dark day. Her best friends, the 
Duncans, were at their great house in War- 
wickshire. She was going to stay with them for 
a month, but not just yet ; while papa himself 
was soon going to pay a short visit to a very 
great lady indeed at Danesly Castle, just this 
side the Border. 

This " very great lady indeed " was perfectly 
charming to our friend ; a smile or a bow from 
her was just then more than anything else to 
Betty. We all know how perfectly delightful 
it is to love somebody so much that we keep 
dreaming of her a little all the time, and what 
happiness it gives when the least thing one has 
to do with her is a perfectly golden joy. Betty 
loved Mrs. Duncan fondly and constantly, and 
she loved Aunt Barbara with a spark of true 
enchantment and eager desire to please her; 
but for this new friend — for Lady Mary 
Danesly (who was Mrs. Duncan's cousin) — 
there was something quite different in her heart. 
As she stood by the window in Clarges street 
she was thinking of this lovely friend, and wish- 
ing for once that she herself was older, so that 

perhaps she might have been asked to come 
with papa for a week's visit at Christmas. 
But Lady Mary would be busy enough with 
her great house-party of distinguished people. 
Once she had been so delightful as to say that 
Betty must come some day to Danesly with 
her father, but of course this could not be the 
time. Miss Day, Betty's old governess, who 
now lived with her mother in one of the suburbs 
of London, was always ready to come to spend 
a week or two if Betty were to be left alone, 
and it was every year pleasanter to try to make 
Miss Day have a good time as well as to have 
one one's self; but, somehow, a feeling of hav- 
ing outgrown Miss Day was hard to bear. 
They had not much to talk about except the 
past, and what they used to do ; and when 
friendship comes to this alone, it may be dear, 
but is never the best sort. 

The fog was blowing out of the street, and 
the window against which Betty leaned was 
suddenly flecked with raindrops. A telegraph 
boy came round the corner as if the gust of 
wind had brought him, and ran up the steps; 
presently the maid brought a telegram in to 
Betty, who hastened to open it, as she was al- 
ways commissioned to do in her father's ab- 
sence. To her surprise it was meant for her- 
self. She looked at the envelope to make sure. 
It was from Lady Mary : 

dm you come to me with your father next week, 
dear ? I wish for you very much. 

"There 's no answer — at least there 's no 
answer now," said Betty, quite trembling with 
excitement and pleasure ; " I must see papa 
first, but I can't think that he will say no. He 
meant to come home for Christmas day with 
me, and now we can both stay on." She 
hopped about, dancing and skipping, after the 
door was shut. What a thing it is to have 
one's wishes come true before one's eyes ! And 
then she asked to have a hansom cab called 
and for the company of Pagot, who was her 
maid and helper now; a very nice woman 
whom Mrs. Duncan had recommended, inas- 
much as Betty was older and had thoughts of 
going to housekeeping in the winter. Pagot's 
sister also was engaged as housemaid, and, 
strange as it may appear, our Tideshead Betty 



I I I 

was about to engage a cook and buttons. 
Pagot herself looked sedate and responsible, 
but she dearly liked a little change and was 
finding the day dull. So presently they started 
off together toward the British Museum in all 
the rain, with the shutters of the cab down and 
the horse trotting along the shining streets as if 
he liked it. 

Mr. Leicester was in the Department of North 
American Prehistoric Remains, and had a jar 
of earth before him which he was examin- 
ing with closest interest. " Here 's a bit of 
charred bone," he was saying eagerly to a wise- 
looking old gentleman, " and here 's a funeral 
bead — just as I expected. This proves my 
theory of the sacrificial — Why, Betty, what 's 
the matter ? " and he looked startled for a mo- 
ment. " A telegram ? Oh, — " 

" It was so very important, you see, papa," 
said Betty. 

" I thought it was bad news from Tideshead," 
said Mr. Leicester, looking up at her with a 
smile after he had read it. "Well, my dear, 
that 's very nice, and very important too," he 
added, with a fine twinkle in his eyes. " I 
shall be going out for a bit of luncheon pres- 
ently, and I '11 send the answer with great 

Betty's cheeks were brighter than ever, as 
if a rosy cloud of joy were shining through. 
"Now that I 'm here, I '11 look at the arrow- 
heads ; may n't I, papa ? " she asked, with 
great self-possession. " I should like to see if 
I can find one like mine — I mean my best 
white one that I found on the river-bank last 

Papa nodded, and turned to his jar again. 
" You may let Pagot go home at one o'clock," 
he said, " and come back to find me here, and 
we '11 go and have luncheon together. I was 
thinking of coming home early to get you. 
We 've a house to look at, and it 's dull weather 
for what I wish to do here at the museum. 
Clear sunshine is the only possible light for 
this sort of work," he added, turning to the old 

gentleman, who nodded ; and Betty nodded 
sagely, and skipped away with Pagot, to search 
among the arrowheads. 

She found many hundreds of the white quartz 
arrowpoints and spearheads like her own trea- 
sure. Pagot thought them very dull, and was 
made rather uncomfortable by the Indian 
medicine-masks and war-bonnets and evil- 
looking war-clubs, and openly called it a 
waste of time for any one to have taken trou- 
ble to get all that heathen rubbish together. 
Such savages and their horrid ways were best 
forgotten by decent folks, if Pagot might be so 
bold as to say so. But presently it was lunch- 
eon-time ; and the good soul cheerfully de- 
parted, while Betty joined her father, and 
waited for him as still as a mouse for half an 
hour, while he and the scientific old gentleman 
reluctantly said their last words and separated. 
She had listened to a good deal of their talk 
about altar-fires, and the ceremonies that could 
be certainly traced in a handful of earth from 
the site of a temple in a crumbled city ; but all 
her thoughts were of Lady Mary and the plea- 
sures of the next week. She looked again at 
the telegram, which was much nicer than most 
telegrams. It was so nice of Lady Mary to have 
said dear in it — just as if she were talking; peo- 
ple did not often say dear in a message. " Per- 
haps some of her guests can't come; but then, 
everybody likes to be asked to Danesly," Betty 
thought. " And I wonder if I shall ever dine 
at table with the guests ; I never have. At 
any rate, I shall see Lady Mary often and be 
with papa. It is perfectly lovely ! I can give 
her the Indian basket I brought her now, 
before the sweet grass is all dry." It was a 
great delight to be asked to the holiday party ; 
many a grown person would be thankful to 
take Betty's place. For was not Lady Mary 
a very great lady indeed, and one of the most 
charming women in England? — a famous 
hostess and assembler of really delightful 
people ? 

" I am asked to Danesly on the seventeenth," 
said Betty to herself, with satisfaction. 

(To be continued.) 


By W. A. Wilson. 

Fred was in a sad quandary. There were 
certain things in the house which managed 
themselves, that is, were attended to by Agnes, 
his wife. There were others which required 
careful and judicious treatment, he said. These 
were left to him, of course. He found them, 
usually, more or less disagreeable. This case, 
however, was particularly difficult to deal with; 
the more so as it was plain to him that not only 
his own feelings, but those of Cecie, his little five- 
year-old daughter, had become involved. Now, 
he was much attached to his only child, and, what- 
ever might happen to his own feelings, he ob- 
jected to hers being wounded in any way. The 
situation, therefore, became more and more per- 
plexing. As a natural consequence, he put off, 
from day to day, deciding what was to be done. 

Agnes had expressed herself with her cus- 
tomary decision. " We simply cannot keep it 
in the house," she said, one evening when Fred 
went into the matter once for all. 

" That is true," admitted her husband. 

" Very well, then ; we may as well get rid of 
it at once," she concluded. 

" Yes, but how ? " asked Fred, with an air of 
clinching the matter with a question she would 
find it difficult to answer. 

" How? That is simple enough, surely." 

'• Don't see it." 

" Why, open the door and put it out." 

" Wh-a-at ! " cried Fred, " and let it die in 
the yard ? " 

" Why, yes. You don't need to be so silly 
about it." 

" Silly about it ! Silly about it ! ! It 's all 
very well to say ' silly ' about it, but I could n't 
do it. I could n't sleep at nights. It 's a good 
thing Cecie is not here to hear her mother." 

" Really, Fred, it seems to me that you are 
driving matters a little too far," remarked Ag- 
nes, in a tone of great severity. 

" Driving ! That 's not bad. I am not driv- 
ing. I am being driven," said Fred, pleased 
however that he seemed to have the better of 
the argument. 

" Well, I don't know," she said. " You agree 
that it cannot stay, and yet you object to let- 
ting it go." 

" I do nothing of the kind," said Fred, help- 
lessly. " I only said it was n't feasible. It sim- 
ply cannot be put out to die. It does n't cost 
much to feed it, you must admit." 

"That is true," said Agnes; "but that has 
nothing to do with it. Surely there is no use 
going over all the reasons again." 

" Then," said Fred, in desperation, " let us 
get a man to take it out into the country 
somewhere and leave it to its fate. Perhaps 
some one would take a fancy to it," he added, 

" That would cost more than it is worth. Be- 
sides, it is a good thing Cecie is not here to 
hear her father," laughed Agnes, and the sub- 
ject was allowed to drop once more. 

Fred felt that the matter was becoming se- 
rious. If Agnes were so unreasonable, what 
would Cecie say to a proposal to turn her newly 
found friend out of doors ? If it had only not 
been so very large ! 

Cecie had become quite a personage of im- 
portance in the household. Her father was re- 
minded so often of himself by things she said 
and did, that he strove in every way to protect 
her from being, as he called it, badly used : 
that is, from being misconstrued and misunder- 
stood. A strong feeling had, consequently, 
grown up between them. This case, this Green 
White Elephant of a Christmas-tree, was a 
characteristic instance. Only Cecie could have 
caused such a fuss about such a trifle. The 
more he thought about it the more ridiculous 


it seemed. Yet, as he said, it was easier to 
laugh than to say what was to be done. 

Toward the end of the previous month, 
Robin, a friend, having sent a present consist- 
ing of a large Christmas-tree growing in an 
earthen pot, Fred went into town — unknown, of 
course, to Cecie — to purchase decorations for 
it. The same evening that young lady, hav- 
ing danced about the house all day and 
feeling tired, begged her father to 
read to her, as she expressed it, a 
nice fairy tale. Fred was an artist, 
and had been occupied for some 
months illustrating a new edition 
of Hans Christian Andersen. 
He took up an old volume of 
his fairy stories and opened 
it at random. It chanced 
that he stumbled upon the 
story of The Fir-tree. This, as 
it happened, had not yet been 
read to his daughter; and, as 
her father prepared to read, he 
noticed that she settled her- 
self on her stool at her 
mother's feet, 
and elaborate- 
ly smoothed 


on, and Cecie listened. When he had finished 
she surprised him by saying nothing. She sat 
quite still, and seemed to have become very 
thoughtful. After a time she rose and went 
quietly into the room where the Christmas-tree 
was standing. 

Presently a small voice called out : " Papa ! " 
Fred, suspecting what had happened, 

her pinafore out be- 
fore her, as she was 
wont to do on great 
occasions : for no occa- 
sion was so great to Cecie 
as the first reading of a 
new fairy tale. 

He did not stop to 
think. It did not occur to him precisely what exactly, you know, but it is quite alive." 
the result of reading that particular story at " What does it feed on all the time, then ? " 
that particular time would most likely be. "The juices of the earth," said Fred, with 
Otherwise, he would probably have kept it for the air of an experienced gardener. " That is 
another day. But he did not ; he read innocently why we must give it water. It requires air, 
Vol. XXIII.— 15-16. 


rose and went in. Agnes 

remained. She had an 

important piece of sewing 

to do. 

" Papa," asked Cecie, whose 

blond curls scarcely reached 

the lowest branches of the 

tree, " it never moves, does it ? " 

" No, dear." 

" And it is alive just like us ? " 
"Yes. That is — well, yes ; not 




too, for it sucks moisture in with these, as well." 
And he pinched the branch nearest him, and a 
few needles came off between his fingers. 

" Does n't that hurt the tree ? " cried Cecie. 

" Oh, no; it won't mind that." 

" Would n't it like some juices just now, 
papa ? " 

" I think not. The earth is moist enough." 

" Oh, let me! I '11 go and get some water," 
said Cecie, starting toward the door. 

" No, no; it has sufficient." 

" But perhaps it would like a long drink. I 
do, sometimes," pleaded the little girl, in tones 
which usually had the desired effect. 

" No ! " said the head of the family, to sat- 
isfy himself that he could be firm occasionally. 

There was a pause. Cecie stood still, look- 
ing up at the handsome stranger as if she had 
never seen a tree before. " Do you think it 
hears us talking about it, papa ? " she said after 
a moment. 

" Perhaps." 

" Perhaps it is asleep," she suggested, mov- 
ing closer to her father and putting her little 
hand in his. 

" Perhaps it is," said Fred, feeling that, after 
all, the tree might as well have had some water. 

" But how does it sleep when it has no eyes? " 

" Oh, it just sleeps in its own way." 

" Standing up like that always ? " 

"Yes, just as, just as — let me see — as horses 
do, for example." 

" Oh, but horses don't always," retorted Ce- 
cie; because the baker had told her, the other 
day, that his horse lay down on the straw and 
went to sleep whenever it got home at night. 

'• They sometimes do," observed Fred, in the 
interests of parental authority, meaning at the 
first opportunity to get reliable information on 
the subject of the private life of horses. 

" Then will it like to live with us ? " 

Fred thought it would, if they were kind to it. 

" And we will be kind to it, won't we ? " 

" Of course we will," Fred promised in the 
innocence of his heart, for he was a child of 
nature himself, fond of flowers and trees and 
everything that lived a free and healthy life. 

Then Cecie said good-night to her tree, " and 
pleasant dreams " ; and when she had closed 
the door for the night and left her new friend 

alone, she went contentedly away with her 
nurse ; and Fred sat down, blissfully uncon- 
scious that he had committed himself in any 

The following forenoon, after struggling for 
an hour to get into his work, Fred had just 
got fairly settled when he was startled by a 
fall, a crash of crockery, and a loud wail in the 
room adjoining his studio. Laying down his 
drawing-board and pen, with a sigh, he went to 
the folding doors and opened them. 

Cecie had already been picked up. She was 
standing like a little model for a statuette, 
holding out her limp and dripping hands. Her 
pinafore and dress were soaked with water, and 
there was a pond on the bright waxed floor, 
dotted with islands of broken stoneware jug. 
The cat in the center of the further room was 
excitedly licking its back. Cecie's lips were 
puckered up in great distress, and her eyes 
were lost in a spasm of tears, for she had star- 
tled no one more than she had herself. 

Fred could not help smiling. He bent down 
and comforted her, and, after the tears had 
ceased, said that to prevent confusion in future, 
either he or mama, or at all events nurse, would 
see that the tree got sufficient water. Cecie 
was to give herself no concern whatever. There 
was no need to trouble herself about it. Would 
she be good and not do so any more ? 

" Y-y-yes," promised Cecie, feeling, however, 
that she was promising away her entire interest 
in life. 

" Oh, I will tell you," said Fred. " Every 
evening at tea-time remind me that the tree is 
thirsty. Nurse can fetch us water, and we can 
give it some." 

Cecie was led away for a change of clothes 
with an expression on her face like sunshine 
breaking through the clouds on an April day. 
Fred, with a reflection of it glistening in his 
eyes, went back to his room and took up his 

That evening he was busy decorating the tree 
for some time after Cecie had gone to sleep. 

The next evening was Christmas eve; but 
when the happy moment arrived, and the doors 
were flung open, disclosing the tree in a blaze 




of light, Cede did not seem to rise to the occa- 
sion quite so enthusiastically as her parents had 
expected ; and yet this was not only the largest 
but the finest tree she had ever had. Cecie, 
however, was not one who could be gay to or- 
der ; and with her the unexpected usually hap- 
pened. This time it was not that she did not 
think her protege beautiful. She was divided 
between admiration and another feeling. She 
was wondering if it would care to be lighted 
up with candles within an inch of its life like 
that, and covered with glittering ornaments till 
it could scarcely breathe ; whether it liked to 
have molten wax run all over its fresh green 
branches; and whether it were being treated 
with proper respect in being made to hold up 
such a load of things. 

Fred laughed heartily when she confided her 
anxieties to him, and said, " Oh, that won't mat- 
ter. Don't mind that, little woman." 

" But don't you remember that the story 
said when trees had barkache it was as bad as 
headache is to us ? " 

" Oh, but it is strong," said her father. " It 
does n't feel such little things." 

" Well, I would have barkache — headache, 
I mean," said Cecie, laughing at her slip, " if I 
had to carry all these burning candles." 

Later, when the little party had broken up 
and Fred was left alone, he sat down in an easy- 
chair. A question had occurred to him while 
Cecie was speaking. This tree of hers — what 
was to be done with it when its time came ? 

He and mama had no means of disposing of 
it, living in the city as they did, and it could 
not be kept in the house. Moreover, Cecie 
would require to know what had been done 
with it. Previous Christmas-trees had had 
their death-blows dealt them in the forest. 
With this one it was different. It was not only 
still living, but, thanks to Cecie, was becoming 
from day to day more and more a personality 
in the house. 

Parents, he reflected, really ought to remem- 
ber to tell their children, when talking of the 
duty of kindness to all dumb creatures, that 
there are exceptions to every rule — that is to 
say, if they wish to avoid drifting into ridicu- 
lous situations. To think of the father of a 
family hesitating about such a paltry thing as 

this ! He looked up at the moment, and his 
eyes fell upon the tree. How beautiful it cer- 
tainly was, in spite of all the finery and tinsel ! 

Cecie was an odd child ! However, when 
Christmas was over, other things would distract 
her attention, he hoped, and then it would be 
time enough to — well, that could be deter- 
mined when the time came. Perhaps some- 
thing would turn up before then. Perhaps the 
thing would decide itself in some way. 

The next day, being Christmas, was a holi- 
day. Fred sat reading in his easy-chair before 
the studio fire. Cecie, not far away, lay upon 
the floor, propping her head up with her arms, 
deeply engrossed in an illustrated spelling-book. 
For a few moments there was no sound but the 
grave beat of the old timepiece hanging on the 
wall and the nervous ticking of two modern 
clocks in the adjoining room. A thin fall of 
snow had slid down the studio windows and 
collected at the bottom of the panes. 

Presently Fred laid down his book, and said, 
over his shoulder : " Where is Dolly to-day ? " 

" She 's asleep just now," she said, rising and 
going to her father's side. " She 's been mak- 
ing plum-pudding." Taking the watch from her 
father's pocket, and holding it sideways, she 
continued : 

" What time is it ? " 

" A quarter past three." 

" But you said it was twelve when the hands 
were together." 

" Yes ; but when they are together at the 


Cecie gave it up. Replacing the watch, she 
said, in an altered tone of voice : " Papa ! " 

"Well, dear?" 

" Trees don't care for anything but growing, 
do they ? " 

" Well, I don't know that they care much 
even for that. They have to grow just as you, 
just as I, must do." 

" Must you grow, papa ? " 

" I ? Well, I suppose I am done growing 
now," said Fred. 

" Will you never grow, never any more ? " 
asked Cecie, so seriously that her father turned 
around and looked at her, and smiled. 

" Well, dear," he said, stroking her hair, " it 




would n't do, you know, if we never stopped. 
Think how big we should get to be ! " 

Cecie burst into a gay laugh. " We could n't 
get in by the door, unless we bent down and 
crept in on our hands and knees, could we ? " 

" Of course we could n't," laughed Fred. 

" But it is funny, too, that we have to stop 
growing. Tell me, papa," she continued, look- 
ing earnestly at him, " are you very old ? " 

" Who ? I ? " said Fred, aghast. " No — of 
course not. I am quite young." 

" How old is old, then ? " 

" Old ? Let me see. Fifty is old, or sixty — 
thereabouts," said Fred. 

After a silence Cecie began again : 

" Will / ever be old, papa ? " 

" Why, certainly, my dear," said Fred, cheer- 
fully ; " that is," he added, as if feeling guilty of 
some vague ungallantry, " I hope so." 

" And never grow any more, like you ? " 


" But would n't you like to keep growing al- 
ways ? " 

" I don't know. I feel pretty comfortable as 
I am. If I were a little girl like you it might 
be different." 

" Do people only want to grow when they 
are young ? " 

Fred shifted in his chair, and then, drawing 
her closer to him, said : " Why do you ask 
about the tree caring to grow ? " 

" Because you read in the story that the tree 
said to itself: ' Let me grow, only let me grow; 
there is nothing so beautiful in all the world.' " 

" I don't remember." 

" Wait, and I will get the book," said Cecie. 

She returned with the volume, which she had 
opened at the proper place, and declared that 
it was at the very beginning. 

" How did you know that that is the place ? " 

" Because the picture of the tree is there," 
replied the child, simply. 

Fred patted her on the cheek, and ran his 
eye rapidly down the page. At length he said: 

" Oh, yes, you are right. Here it is : 

"'Be happy,' said the Sunshine, 'that you are young. 
Rejoice in your growth, and in the young life that is 
within you.' And the Wind kissed the tree by day, and 
the Dew wept over it by night : but the Fir-tree did not 

" What did n't it understand ? " asked Cecie. 

" Oh, I don't know," said her father care- 

" I know." 

" What, then ? " 

" That some clay it would stop growing, like 
you, and might want to grow some more, and 
could n't," cried Cecie, breaking into a dance 
of joy; for she had a great belief that her father 
knew nearly everything, and it was a great treat 
to her to be able to tell him something he did 
not know. 

Finally, as if by way of further relieving her 
feelings, she caught up one foot, and hopped 
round the studio, and out at the open door. 

As she did so, Fred's book slipped from his 
knee and fell. He picked it up again, but laid 
it on the table. Resuming his chair, he sat for 
some time with his head resting on his hand, 
looking absently at the fire. 

Cecie sometimes had fits of not knowing 
what to do with her limbs ; or it might, per- 
haps, be more correct to say that her limbs had 
fits of not knowing what to do with themselves 
and her. At one moment she would be seen 
lounging about like a marionette, hanging on 
her father or mother or whoever happened to 
be near. The next minute she had gone. She 
was likely, however, to reappear at any mo- 
ment, like a kitten, the innocent victim of some 
strange galvanic power. 

These moods had the additional peculiarity 
of usually occurring when every one else was 
disposed to be quiet. This occasion being no 
exception, Fred was soon startled from his rev- 
erie by warm lips sending a sudden " Boo-o-o ! " 
near his ear. 

" What 's the matter ? " he cried out, twitch- 
ing as if from an electric shock. 

Cecie applied her lips to his ear again. 

" I don't know," he said, laughing, and rub- 
bing that organ energetically. 

" Guess ! " 

" Can't. There is n't anything forgotten." 

" Oh, yes, there is," said Cecie, and whisper- 
ing a second time. 

" Oh, not just now, I think," said Fred, smil- 
ing, as she retreated a pace to watch the ef- 
fect of the joyful communication. 

i8 95 .] 



"the tree was ceremoniously and most delicately watered, to the complete satisfaction of its patroness. 

" But you said you would." delicately watered, to the complete satisfaction 

" It won't require any water to-day." of its patroness. 

" Oh, yes. You know it has all the candles It was large enough, certainly (its top just 

and things to hold." touched the ceiling of the room in which it 

Fred rose resignedly, and went into the stood), but it was very kind of Robin, Fred re- 
room, and the tree was ceremoniously and most fleeted, to have sent such a handsome tree. If, 




therefore, this newly born enthusiasm of Cecie's 
for growing were to be encouraged, it might 
soon be necessary to take her friend into the 
studio. But that was entirely out of the ques- 
tion. He could not afford the space. Sooner 
or later he must come to a decision. There 
seemed to be no resource but to break it up for 
fire-wood. Cecie could be sent for a walk 
while that was being done. Who was to do it, 
however ? It was not work for his wife, and 
he — well, he did not care to do it. He was 
not accustomed to use an ax, for one thing ; be- 
sides, work of that sort was bad for an artist's 

Nurse would do it. Why not ? She was a 
great, strong woman. 

It was not until the first week of the New 
Year, when the mistletoe and holly and other 
relics of Christmas were being cleared away, 
that the subject of their silent visitor came up 

If Cecie would only tire of it, he would say 
to himself at times, or if it would only die! 
Of the latter, unfortunately, there seemed to be 
very little prospect, unless, indeed, it died by 
drowning. Thanks to Cecie's watchfulness, 
there seemed a distant possibility of that. 

Once he pulled himself together, and, without 
daring to address himself directly to his daugh • 
ter, spoke about the matter, in a seemingly 
casual manner, in her presence. 

" What shall we do when the tree is away ? " 
he said to mama. 

" It is n't going away, is it, papa ? " asked 
Cecie, looking up in great surprise. li You said 
it was to be allowed to stay." 

" C-certainly, my dear. I mean, what would 
we have done if it had been going away ? " 

Cecie's calmness had quite disarmed him. 

" Where could it have gone, poor thing ? " 
asked Cecie, tenderly. 

" I-don't-know," said Fred, hopelessly. 

Again he and Agnes were talking obscurely 
about it, so that the child might not understand. 

Presently Cecie said in a low whisper : 

" S-sh, mama, s-sh ! Don't talk like that. 
The tree might hear you, and think you were 
talking about it" 

" But, my dear," said her mother, seizing the 

opportunity, " we are talking about it." Sud- 
denly lowering her voice, in response to an ex- 
pression in Cecie's face, she added : 

" Something must be done, you know. It 
cannot stay here always." 

" Then," said Cecie in a hoarse whisper to 
her father, who had begun to crumble bread 
upon the table-cloth, " why did you let it hear 
you say it could, Papa ? " 

" Me, dear ? I did n't." 

"Yes, you did. the first night it came," per- 
sisted Cecie, her eyes filling suddenly. 

" Did I ? Well, but we don't need to chop 
it up, you know," said Fred, soothingly. 

" Chop it up ! " cried Cecie, horrified. " AVho 
said we would chop it up ? " 

" Why, why, — nobody. Did nurse say so ? " 

" Nurse ? Why, no. She loves it as much as 
I do now, ever since I told her," said Cecie. 

" Oh ! I did n't know," said the victim, 
feeling that the toils were closing around him, 
and beginning to wonder if Hunding found it 
inconvenient to have a tree growing through 
the roof of his abode. It might look pictur- 
esque at least, if the worst came to the worst. 

" Poor thing ! " said Cecie, turning to their 
helpless charge ; " we promised to be kind to 
you, and we will, won't we ? " 

Neither Fred nor Agnes said a word. They 
felt that their best course was to wait. 

Cecie, however, made it difficult for them at 
the outset by saying good-night to her tree 
that evening with even more kindliness in her 
voice than usual. 

Fred complained to Agnes afterward, as they 
sat alone together, that it was impossible to 
work when one was constantly distracted by 
the small things of life. Agnes said, " Stuff 
and nonsense ! " Moreover, she added, laugh- 
ing, it was absurd to call Cecie's tree a small 
thing of life. It was already too large, and, 
what was worse, seemed to be growing larger. 

It was no wonder, therefore, that Fred was 
in a great quandary. 

Whenever he chanced to see the tree, stand- 
ing on its stool, so submissive or so indifferent, 
he could not quite make out which, but cer- 
tainly so undeniably fresh and healthy-looking, 
his conscience gave a twinge. He began to 

i3 9 5- : 


II 9 

avoid the "prison," as Agnes jestingly called the 
room in which it stood ; for when he met the 
tree face to face, he always thought of the 
Good Robber, and how he must have felt when 
he took the Babes by the hand and led them 
to the Wood ; and when he heard nurse wa- 
tering it and spraying its branches twice a day, 
he winced, for he had delegated the work to 
her in the steadfast hope that she would for- 
get to do it. 

Once, with a bitter remembrance of this, 
he said to Agnes, who had complained of her. 
neglect : " Yes, she does nothing she is told to 
do, that girl." 

" Oh, papa," broke in Cecie, who happened 
to be in a corner of the room, ' : you can't say 
that. Look at the way she keeps the tree. 
Why, there are buds upon it already ! " 

At another time, Agnes, who had just de- 
cided to take the law into her own hands 
and give orders for the execution, without say- 

ing anything either to Cecie or her husband, 
was busy arranging her bookcase, when Fred 
looked up from the letter he was writing and 
said : " S-sh ! Who is that in the next room ? " 

'• It is only Cecie." 

" But she is talking to some one." 

Agnes laid down the book she was dusting, 
and, going softly to the door, stood still and 
listened. As she did so, a curious look, that 
was half smile and half something else, crossed 
her face. 

" They are having a great time in there," she 
said in a lowered tone, coming away from the 
door. " Cecie is telling it a long story about 
a walk she had in the park with nurse." 

Agnes resumed her work amongst the books, 
and decided that in the mean time there was no 
hurry. The tree could remain where it was for 
a day or two longer. 

At last, at the eleventh hour, quite unex- 
pectedly, a solution of the difficulty arrived. 

( To be concluded. ) 

TM m@ffli 







By W. C. McClelland. 


You never heard John Henry Jones ? 

Well, I '11 not fix the blame — 
But it is sad you never heard 

John Henry Jones declaim. 

Up in the old Society 

We often made it roar, 
But all of us grew mute as mice 

When "Jonesey" took the floor. 

It did n't matter what he spoke, 

The common or the rare, 
When Jones referred to things, it seemed 

Those very things were there ! 

He made us see Phil Sheridan — 
We saw that bounding steed ; 



We heard the guns, the clang of hoofs ; 
We felt the army's need. 

Down Balaklava's war-scorched 

Amid the iron rain, 
We saio six hundred heroes dash — 

A few come back again. 

We never hated any one 
So much, it seemed to me, 

As that crank Jones was storming at 
In " Woodman, spare that tree!" 

I 've heard a hundred preachers 
But none seemed half so grand 
As Jones did when he made us 
Bozzaris cheer his band. 

''give me liberty or death 

Jones always was just Henry Jones 

Each time that he began ; 
But sometimes in the second verse 

He seemed another man; 

And once we heard the clank of chains; 

We thrilled ; we held our breath ; 
And Patrick Henry shouted, " Give 

Me Liberty or Death ! " 


There 's many a treat in store for you 
(I hope), and joy and fame; 

But still 't is sad you never heard 
John Henry Jones declaim. 



(A Story of I lie Year 30 A. D.) 

By William O. Stoddard. 

[Beguti in tlie November number. } 

Chapter III. 


Cyril was now well out upon the battle- 
plain of Esdraelon. Too many people were 
coming and going upon the highways. They 
were not soldiers, nor pursuing him, but the 
young fugitive preferred the broad stubble- 
fields, from which the wheat had long since 
been reaped, and where now the tall growths 
of weeds concealed him very well. There were 
stone walls to climb and villages to go around, 
and the need for keeping under cover made the 
distances to be traveled longer. On he went, 
with a springing, elastic step, and he did not 
seem to feel at all the heat of the sun. It was 
his native climate and did not oppress him. 

The many orchards and vineyards to which 
he came were those of his friends, for he did 
not seem to mind the husbandmen at work in 
them. As he made his way between the long 
rows of a luxuriant vineyard, he thought: 

" It cannot be far now to the Kishon. Fa- 
ther says that there is always a Roman patrol 
up and down the bank, so that no one can 
cross, except under the eyes of the guards at 
the bridges. I shall have to keep watch for the 
patrol. Once across the Kishon, and no man 
in heavy armor can overtake me.'' 

Ezra had said of him, " as fleet of foot as 
Asahel, the brother of Joab," and Cyril had 
already shown himself a very rapid traveler; 
but he might meet mounted men. He went 
forward more cautiously, among the sheltering 
vines, and as he paused, listening, there came a 
sound that startled him. It was faint and far, 
but he exclaimed : 

"A trumpet ? That must be a signal. Those 
camel-drivers on the road saw me, and they 

must have reported me to the guard at the 
bridge. It is life or death, now ! " 

In a minute more, he was peering out from 
the northerly border of the vineyard. 

" There is the Kishon ! " he said. " There is 
a patrol, too; he is a legionary." 

On the bank of the deep and swift river 
stood a fully armed soldier of that terrible power 
which overshadowed all the known world. To 
Cyril, that solitary legionary, stationed there to 
prevent such as he from crossing the Kishon, 
was an embodiment of all the enemies of Israel 
and Judah. The soldier stood erect, with his 
pilum, or broad-bladed spear, in his right hand. 
The vizor of his bronze helmet was open. He 
seemed to have understood the trumpet-note of 
warning, and was looking in all directions. His 
sword hung at the left side, ready for use, and 
on his left arm was a large round shield, now 
raised a little as he scanned the vineyards and 
the river-bank, as if he wondered from which of 
them an enemy could come upon him at that 
time and place. After a few moments, he 
turned away and strode slowly, vigilantly, along 
the river-bank, while Cyril watched him. 

"Good!" exclaimed Cyril, at last. "He is 
far enough, now. I can reach the river." 

Out he darted and sprang away toward the 
Kishon. Of course he was at once seen by the 
quick-eyed patrol, and hoarse and loud came the 
Latin summons to halt. To disobey was sure and 
instant death, if Cyril should be overtaken, and 
he would be followed with relentless persistence 
if he should escape ; but he bounded steadily 
forward while the soldier ran toward him. The 
soldier ran well, too, considering the weight of 
arms and armor he carried, for all Roman legion- 
aries were trained athletes ; but he could not get 
between the armorer's son and the Kishon. 

Not broad, but very deep and swift, was the 



torrent that came rushing down from its sources 
among the Gilboa hills. A spring, a splash, 
and Cyril was swimming vigorously, though 
swept along down-stream by the strong cur- 
rent, while his left hand held his rolled-up robe 
high and dry above the water. 

Fierce, indeed, were the threatening com- 
mands of the legionary, but on the brink of the 
Kishon he was compelled to halt and consider. 
No doubt he could swim, but not well with his 
heavy armor, his shield, and his sword. 

Lightly and rapidly swam Cyril, and in a 
few moments more he was out on the northerly 
bank of the Kishon, sending back a shout of 
triumph and defiance. But he meant to send 
back something more. His eyes were swiftly 
searching the ground around him, while he drew 
out something which had been hidden among 
the folds of his robe. 

It was a square of leather, as broad as 
his two hands, with corner-straps as long as 
his arm — a sling, such as David used of old. 
In that older day, all the tribe of Benjamin, to 
which the house of Ezra the Swordmaker be- 
longed, were noted slingers; and here was their 
young representative, stooping to pick up 
smooth, rounded pebbles, as David had picked 
up his pebbles from the brook in the valley of 
Elah. In an instant he was erect again, sling 
in hand, while yet the soldier stood considering 
the risk of swimming the Kishon. 

Whirl went the sling, with such a swiftness 
that it could hardly be seen, and away hissed 
the stone. No doubt the Roman had faced 
slingers, many a time ; but the distance was 
more than fifty yards, and he may not have 
expected so true an aim. Up went his shield, 
indeed, a second too late, and well for him that 
he bowed his head, for Cyril's first pebble struck 
him full upon the crest. It did not knock him 
down, only because, in the heat of the day, he 
had loosened the fastenings of his helmet, so 
that the blow of the stone struck it from his 
head, and sent it rolling away in the grass. 

No crossing of the Kishon now, with that 
slinger to practise upon his bare head all the 
way ! Expert warrior though he was, he had 
enough to do for the next two minutes in 
warding off with his shield the well-aimed 
pebbles which rapidly followed the first. 

Fast they came, and loudly they rang, one 
of them glancing from the shield to batter the 
brazen greave on his right leg. 

" I must not delay," thought Cyril. " Other 
Romans may be coming. One more ! " 

Away flew the stone, but the blow on his leg 
had warned the soldier to kneel and guard 
now, and the missile made only a deep dent 
in the face of the shield. 

When the bearer of it looked out again from 
behind the target of bull's-hide and metal which 
had served him so well, the slinger had disap- 
peared ; and there was nothing for the beaten 
Roman patrol to do but to go and report 
to his officer that one of the best slingers he 
had ever met had escaped from him. He 
could not have guessed how one Jewish boy's 
heart was dancing with delight and pride as he 
pushed along northward, thinking, dreaming, 
and even exclaiming enthusiastically : 

" Oh, that the King would come to lead us 
against the Romans ! " 

No hunted wolf could have gone forward 
more cautiously than did Cyril. There were 
other streams to cross, and some of them were 
deep ; but there were no patrols in his way, and 
the waters were no impediment. They were more 
like cooling baths provided for a wayfarer who 
was fond of them. If nothing worse should 
block his path, he would have no difficulty in 
getting to Cana some time during the next day. 

The sun went down, and a cloudless night 
came on. The sky seemed to blaze with stars, 
and the young traveler could still find his way, 
somewhat more slowly, along the lanes which 
led from house to house and from hamlet to 
hamlet. It was toilsome journeying, and there 
was now added the danger of being taken by 
anybody and everybody for a prowling robber. 

" They would make short work of me," he 
said, " or I might be sold for a slave. They 
would not crucify me, but they would surely 
scourge me." 

It seemed as if Cyril gave hardly a thought 
to the fact that he had gone without any 
supper. Perhaps he was used to privation. 
At all events, he at last lay down under the 
shadow of a wide-branching olive-tree, and 
went to sleep as peacefully as if he had no 
enemies in the world. His last thought was: 





" Father will escape them — I know that 
he will. To-morrow will be the fifth day of 
the week, and I shall see Lois before sunset." 

Chapter IV. 


About an hour after Cyril lay down at the foot 
of the olive-tree, that Wednesday evening, Lois 
was one of a joyous procession which set out 

from the house of Rabbi Isaac, as soon as 
word arrived that the bridegroom was coming. 
Already, at the house of the bride's father, all 
the wedding formalities and ceremonials re- 
quired by the Law or by Galilean custom had 
been fully performed, and the bridal procession 
from that place was winding its somewhat noisy 
way through the narrow and crooked streets of 
Cana. The bridal pair were escorted by all who 
had any right or will to accompany them. When 
the procession from Ben Nassur's house met 

is 9 5.: 



them, it faced about, forming one company, 
which increased as they went along. 

The bride herself, closely attended by the 
bridegroom and his near friends, was the cen- 
tral figure; but of her nothing could be seen 
excepting the tresses of flowing hair which es- 
caped from under her veil. Her robes, however, 
were glittering with all the jewels of her family 
for which a place could anywhere be found. 
There were many musicians, — flute-players, 
beaters of cymbals, and others, — and there 
were a number of fine singers among the girls 
who came dancing along in front of the bride 
and groom, singing the songs that befitted the 
occasion. Most of these were in praise of 
the beauty and good qualities of the bride. 
Among all the singers there was no voice 
sweeter than that of Lois. She was accom- 
panied by her friends and neighbors ; and each 
young girl carried in her hand a lighted lamp, 
and all were exceedingly careful lest it should 
go out, for an idea of evil fortune attached to 
such a happening. The lights of the little 
lamps carried by the dancing, singing maidens, 
however, were as nothing compared with that 
of the blazing torches borne by the young men 
who went before or at the sides of the proces- 
sion. This was evidently no ordinary wedding, 
in the estimation of the people of Cana. 

When the house of Ben Nassur was reached, 
most of the merrymakers were at liberty to re- 
turn to their own homes ; but a chosen few 
walked in with the bride and groom, and 
thereupon the outer door of the house was 

The fifth day of the week, Thursday, would 
be counted as the first day of the feast, and 
during seven days Ben Nassur would keep open 
house in honor of his son's wedding. 

The fifth day of the week dawned brilliantly 
over Judea. Ezra the Swordmaker was just 
then cautiously emerging from an opening 
which, at a little distance, looked like a crack 
or furrow in the steep side of a hill. His place 
of refuge for the night had been one of the 
numberless caves, partly natural and partly ar- 
tificial, with which all that region abounds. 
They form very safe hiding-places both for 
hunted men and for wild beasts. 

Ezra stood still for a moment in the doorway 

of his cave, and drew a long breath, glad to see 
the light and to breathe the fresh morning air. 

" Cyril is safe by this time," he said. " He 
must have passed the border. So am I safe, 
but — of what use am I now?" He groaned 
as he lifted his right hand. " I can hardly call 
myself a man," he said. " I must go and hide 
in the wilderness of Judea. My days of service 
are done. There is no power on earth that can 
restore a withered hand ! " 

For withered it was : shriveled and crooked 
and gnarled. He could neither grasp with 
the nerveless fingers nor straighten them, and 
he let his arm fall loosely at his side, and, turn- 
ing, speedily disappeared in the forest. 

There were a great many people coming and 
going that day at the house of the wise rabbi 
Isaac Ben Nassur. They were not all Cana 
people, by any means. The bridal feast was 
spread in the large front room opening upon the 
porch, and all who had a right to enter were 
welcomed heartily. Food was plentifully pro- 
vided, but the merriest hour of each day would 
be after sunset, when, the day's work being done, 
all the invited guests would come. 

The bridegroom was continually present, to 
receive congratulations and good wishes. With 
him were several young men of his more inti- 
mate friends; but decidedly the most important 
figure in that room was Isaac himself. As mas- 
ter of the house and as ruler of the feast, he sat 
at the head of the long table provided for the 
occasion. His dress was as simple as ever, 
but it seemed to have undergone a change, he 
wore it with so grand an air. He appeared to 
be happy, and he received great respect from 
the throng of people who came to congratulate 
him upon the marriage of his son. 

So the marriage-feast went on until the mid- 
day was past and the shadows began to lengthen 
in the streets of Cana. In the shade of Ben 
Nassur's house, hours before sunset, on the east- 
erly side, stood two young people, half hidden 
by the vines and shrubbery, who seemed to 
have forgotten all about the wedding. Their 
talk was subdued but exceedingly animated, for 
Cyril had arrived and he was telling Lois of all 
that had happened since they had parted at 
Samaria so many months before. She was as 
earnestly patriotic as Cyril himself, and her 




face said more than her words while she lis- 
tened to Cyril's account of the doings of Samar- 
itans and Romans, and of the deeds of her 
father and his friends. Then he told her of 
his own feat at the Kishon, and her bright 
black eyes flashed with exulting admiration of 
a brother who had actually struck off the hel- 
met of a Roman legionary. 

" Oh, Cyril ! — what a soldier thou wilt be ! " 

" If the King were here to lead us ! " broke 
in Cyril. "Oh, for the Messiah, the Captain! 
I could fight under him." 

" Cyril," replied Lois, " I have somewhat to 
tell thee. Nathanael, Isaac's friend, was at 
the Jordan where John the Baptizer is preach- 
ing. That was several weeks ago. He came 
back with a report about Jesus of Nazareth, 
and how John had said of him that he was 
the Lamb of God. It is so strange!" 

" Herod has imprisoned John in the Black 
Castle," said Cyril, " not far from the Dead Sea." 

" But he is a prophet," said Lois ; " Natha- 
nael believes it. The carpenter's son is of the 
royal house of David. He will be here to-day 
with some of his friends from Capernaum and 
Bethsaida, and thou wilt see him." 

Cyril listened in silence, for the tidings deeply 
interested him. He had dreamed and hoped 
and talked, as had all other Jews young or 
old, about a Prince of the house of David, an 
Anointed Deliverer; but it was quite another 
thing to be told that the man he longed for 
had already been found, and that he was to 
meet him at the house of Ben Nassur. 

" Come," said Lois, " I will show thee his 
mother. She is there by the well, waiting for 
him. She is Hannah's near kinswoman, and 
we love her greatly." 

" He is only a carpenter now," said Cyril. 

" Rabbi Isaac said to Nathanael that Jesus 
is indeed a lineal descendant of David, but he 
is not a soldier. He reads in the synagogues, 
and he has been preaching much of late. Still, 
Isaac says he is not learned like a rabbi." 

" I wish I could see him," exclaimed Cyril. 

" Come," said Lois, again ; and they went 
slowly, talking almost in whispers. Lois had 
not yet seen the son of the carpenter of 
Nazareth, and her eagerness to do so was 
quickly communicated to her enthusiastic bro- 

ther. He felt his heart beat more quickly, and 
his breath came faster, as she told him of the 
various marvels that had been crowned at last 
by the testimony of John at the Jordan. 

" Even while he was in the water," she said, 
" a beautiful white dove came down and alighted 
on his head, and there was heard a voice from 
the heavens." 

" I wish I had been there ! " exclaimed Cyril. 
" But is that Mary, his mother ? " 

"Yes; she stands there — there by the well," 
said Lois. " Is she not a noble-looking woman ? 
And she says her son has never seemed just 
like other men." 

But such was not the opinion of Isaac Ben 
Nassur and other leading residents of Cana 
and of Nazareth. They knew the young Jesus 
(or Joshua, as they more frequently called him), 
the son of Joseph. They had seen him from 
boyhood. They thought no less of him be- 
cause he worked for a living : the wisest and 
greatest rabbis did so. Moreover, it was an 
important matter that he was of the royal line 
of David, now so nearly extinct; every Jew 
was ready to acknowledge so rare a distinction ; 
but there their reverence ended, for otherwise 
he had neither rank nor power. The older 
and wiser they thought themselves, the less 
they were concerned about Nathanael's talk of 
the marvelous occurrences at Bethabara. 

Cyril and Lois were young, and were neither 
wise nor learned. They, therefore, were more 
and more excited as they drew nearer the noble- 
looking matron who stood by the well, gazing 
expectantly down the street. Her face had 
just been lighted by an expression of pleasure; 
but now it suddenly clouded again, as if some- 
thing whispered to her by a woman who came 
from the house might be unpleasant tidings. 
At that moment, also, the bridegroom himself 
appeared in the doorway, accompanied by his 
mother, Hannah ; and his face, like her own, 
wore an anxious look. 

" Such a disgrace, Raphael! " exclaimed Han- 
nah, in a half-frightened tone — "to have the 
supply of wine fail on the first day of the feast! " 

" The tax-gatherers are to blame ! " he re- 
sponded, in angry mortification. " They had 
secured almost every wine-skin that was for 
sale in Cana. So I sent all the way to Chora- 



I 27 

zin, and I provided abundance ; but the tax- the face of Mary. " The publicans took it," 

gatherers have stopped it on the way. They whispered Lois ; but her brother was gazing 

declared that it had not paid its full duty ; but I earnestly at the mother of Jesus of Nazareth 

know that is untrue. They have taken it — they and so did not reply. He could not explain 

are robbers ! " to himself what it was that was so different in 

Raphael was sorely mortified. Anybody her manner from any of the other women 


might have sympathized with him. Such a 
scarcity would be considered a disgrace to his 
whole family and to that of his bride. 

" Do not tell your father, yet," said Hannah. 
" But what are we to do ? " 

Cyril and Lois, out by the well, had now 
heard this news, the same which had so clouded 

around her. Her face was so pure, so good, 
he thought; so full of light as she now turned 
again to look down the street. Then she ex- 
claimed : " Hannah ! He is coming ! He will 
be here quickly." 

" Cyril," said Lois, pointing, " look ! There 
is Jesus of Nazareth ! He is come ! " 

( To be continued.) 

Was n't it a tunny dream ? — perfectly bewild'rin' ! — / 

Last night, and night before, and night before that, - 
Seemed like I saw the march o' regiments o' children, 

Marching to the robin's fife and cricket's rat-ta-tat ! 
Lily-banners overhead, with the dew upon 'em, 
.,, On flashed the little army, as with sword and flame ; 
£ [Like the buzz o' bumble-wings with the honey on 'em. 
\ f Came an eerie, cheery chant, chiming as it came : 

Smooth roads or rough roads, warm or winter weather, jjB 

On go the children, tow-head and brown, 
Brave boys and brave girls, rank and file together. 

Marching out of Babyland, over dale and down: 
Some go a-gipsying out in country places — 

Out through the orchards, with blossoms on the boughs 
Wild, sweet, and pink and white as their own glad faces ; 

And some go, at evening, calling home the cows. 




Where go the children 2 Traveling ! Traveling / 
Where go the children, traveling ahead 2 

Some go to foreign wars and camps by the firelight — 
Some go to glory so; and some go to bed ! 


V Some go through grassy lanes leading to the city — 
Thinner grow the green trees and thicker grows the dust 
Ever, though, to little people any path is pretty 
So it leads to newer lands, as they know it must. 
Some go to singing less; some go to list'ning; 

Some go to thinking over ever nobler themes ; 
Some go anhungered, but ever bravely whistling, 
Turning never home again only in their dreams. 

1 -jSgrfc f \ art-? 1 -, Y/' 

A ^ 

Where go the children? Traveling! Traveling! 

Where go the children, traveling ahead 2 

Some go to conquer things; some go to try them; 

Some go to dream them; and some go to bed! 

Vol. XXIII.— 17. 


jftfenawB" - 


T ww®m 

rginia Woodward Cloud. 

) \ 'LL hie me up to Durley Fair," quoth Master Merrivein; 
" A day of rest and jollity, then hie me home again. 
With shillings in my pocket, and the harvest work all done, 
I '11 spend a happy holiday, then back by set o' sun ! " 

o blithesome Master Merrivein, all in his Sun- 
day best, 
Started straightway for Durley Fair, with energy 

and zest; 
His stick upon his shoulder, most joyfully he 

But suddenly '- 

a voice ,, (1 >w 
from a 

neighbor's ^ipsfc 
gateway said : 

1 h, Master, Master Merrivein! 
As you go to the fair, 
Will you take my tumbler-pigeons to the 

pigeon fakir there ? " 
So, kindly Master Merrivein, he slung 
them on his back, 
The pigeons and the pigeon-cage. 
(They made a goodly pack !) 

z 3° 


" ■T" jjflfj - ?old ! hold, there, Master Merrivein! As you go through the town, 
lESl Will you leave this little donkey with brother Billy Brown ? 
The donkey is so gentle, and so tractable, ^■slriku+MP, 

'r is said VWft'ViMk -X/ -■ 

That, if you do not beat him, he '11 just trot on ahead!" j§^f!9^'*/' ? ^\_ ^ i^?$52=^ 

So, kindly Master Merrivein, he added to his store, ty J ',A : /..j0E ^^AJ^SPk' ' 'M^j^£^&^i 
By letting one small donkey just trot right on before. ^/)/'' 1 f-siji ^mw jB&f~ 




o, there, you Master Merrivein ! Go 
you by Durley Fair? 
Then please just take these candle- sffik»'SI«B* 
sticks to cousin Betty Blair ! 

This bonnet, in the bonnet-box, I '11 add, if you don't mind, 
And these few little trifles I will just tie on behind ! 

They 're for my sister at the Inn, good sir; and 

mother begs 
To add this green umbrella and a basketful of eggs!" 


So, kindly Master Merrivein, he took them on his arm, 
For fear the bonnet and the eggs might straightway 
come to harm. 







if i ., \ 



h, Master, Master Merrivein ! just step around this way! 
If only you will drive a cow along with you to-day ! 
She 's the gentlest, kindest animal that ever yet 

was seen, 
And I 've sold her to young Mistress Finch, who 

lives on Durley Green ! " 

So, kindly Master Merrivein, he hummed a little song, 
And the cow she switched her tail about and straight- 
way went along. 

h, wait — wait, Master Merrivein! Please stop a moment where 
The cross-roads meet the school-house, well-nigh to Durley Fair, 
And give this keg of butter and bag of tarts so nice, 
And this shawl and woolen comforter, to good old Granny Gryce ! " 

So, kindly Master Merrivein, with effort and 

with care, 

Got all these things slung on him, — no 

matter how or where. 


i8 95 .: 



' ' "TTs that good Master Merrivein ? Three squawk- 
ing geese have I; 
I '11 hang them on your shoulder, and their 
feet I '11 tightly tie. 
Just leave them with Dame Blodgett, anear 

the crooked stile, 
The other side of Durley Green, about a half 
a mile ! " 

~~~" ,H, Stop Stop, 

Master Merri- 
vein ! Go you 
to Durley Fair ? 

Then I beg you take this finery for my 

daughter Meg to wear, 
This flowered hat and tippet, the mitts and 

She 's at Aunt Elsie's cottage, and will wel- 
come you with joy ! " 

ait, there, good Master Merrivein ! If to 

the fair you go, 
Please take my fiddle and my flute to 

Uncle Jerry go ! 

The tuning-fork and music-rack, accordion 

and horn, 
Are for his son, who leads the band at Durley 

Fair each morn ! " 




-»i o, straightway, Master Merrivein, so good and true and kind, 
Started him off to Durley Fair a day of rest to find. 
But did he find it ? Oh, dear me ! Go ascertain, I pray, 
Of all the curious country-folk who passed him on the way ! 

fOR the gentle little donkey, — that the sight you may not miss 
I '11 say it took an attitude occasionally like this, — 

While the pigeons and the squawking geese, 

That one small picture could not hold the 
havoc that they made ! 

i8 9 S.] 



\ •) 

HE cow (that ge?itle animal!) — to-morrow, at the fair, 

Young Mistress Finch may try to sell ; I warn you, then 

beware ! 
For Master Merrivein found out, to his own great surprise, 
That she had an unexpected way of taking exercise. 

nd all the other articles ? Alack-a-day ! I ween, 

Some things, to be appreciated, really must be seen ; 
But if you 'd fully understand the how, and when, and 

Go take a day (like Merrivein's) to rest at Durley Fair ! 

... . J^P-/^ 




By James Otis. 

[Begun in the 2Iay number.] 

Chapter XII. 


During the remainder of the day neither 
Carrots nor Teddy saw Skip. 

It appeared very much as if Master Jellison 
had grown alarmed after seeing his intended 
victim conversing with the policeman. 

The other merchants in the newspaper and 
the bootblacking business, neglecting everything 
else, discussed the very remarkable state of af- 
fairs brought about by the boy from Saranac, 
until the partners had succeeded in rolling up 
profits that made Carrots's eyes open wide with 

Then their brother merchants began to real- 
ize that, while effecting nothing so far as the 
controversy between Skip and Teddy was con- 
cerned, they were losing an opportunity of 
earning money; and so they at once resumed 
their labors, and Carrots soon was aware of a 
depression in his department of the bootblack- 
ing industry which caused him no slight amount 
of sorrow. 

" If Skip Jellison had hung 'round here the 
rest of the day, so 's to give the other fellows 
more chance to talk, we 'd have come nigh 
to earnin' enough to pay for the stand before 
night," he said, as Teddy returned from pur- 
chasing his fourth supply of papers. 

" That shows how much a fellow can lose 
unless he keeps his eyes open," Teddy replied. 

" That 's a fact," said Carrots. " It did n't 
seem much to loaf 'round a little while ; but it 
counts up when you come to look at it." 

" You can jest bet it does; an' if you '11 keep 
watch of yourself for another week, we '11 be in 
mighty good shape to set ourselves up in busi- 

ness. There 's plenty of money to be earned 
'round here, an' if a fellow does n't spend it as 
fast as he gets it, it won't be long before he 's 
on his feet." 

Ever since he began to follow the occupa- 
tion of a bootblack, Carrots had desired to own 
such an outfit as was in the possession of a cer- 
tain Italian on Centre street. In his eyes it 
was simply magnificent. A chair, upholstered 
in red velvet, stood on a platform covered with 
sheet brass and studded plentifully with large- 
headed nails of the same metal. As foot-rests 
there were two deformed camels in bronzed 
iron, each bearing on its back a piece of iron 
fashioned in the shape of the sole of a boot. 
Even in his wildest dreams, however, he had 
never allowed himself to believe it was possible 
for him to become the owner of such a gorgeous 
establishment ; for he had learned from a reli- 
able source that the Italian's outfit had cost 
not less than twenty dollars — an amount which, 
in Carrots's eyes, was so large as to be within 
reach of only the very wealthy. 

Now, however, he began to think such a 
thing might be possible, for he had realized 
what could be accomplished by industry. In 
his mind's eye he saw the firm's news-stand, in 
one corner of which could be placed a small 
stove during the cold weather, with a space 
under the counter sufficiently large for the two 
boys to sleep in, and the outside of the estab- 
lishment painted a vivid green. Carrots was 
very particular as to the color. He had de- 
cided, as soon as the matter was broached by 
Teddy, that if they ever did succeed in buying 
a stand, it must be painted green ; and this was 
because a friend of his in Jersey City had told 
him, in the strictest secrecy, that such a color 
was very " lucky." 

How industriously he labored during the 


l 2>7 

remainder of the afternoon ! So eager was he to 
reach the packing-case home in order to count 
the money on hand, that he proposed to stop 
work for the night an hour before the demand 
for bootblacks' services had wholly ceased. 

" We '11 have to wait a while longer," Teddy 
said decidedly. " It won't do to knock off yet, 
'cause we ought to make enough to pay for 
our suppers between 
now an' dark. S'pos- 
in' you take some of 
these papers ? You 
can sell 'em when 
there 's no show for 

Carrots obeyed with- 
out a murmur, for the 
green news-stand and 
the brass-studded plat- 
form and chair still re- 
mained beforehis eyes; 
and not until eight 
o'clock was it decided 
that they could afford 
to " close up shop "by 
going home. 

On gaining the pack- 
ing-cases the proceeds 
of the day's work were 
thrown into one pile, 
and then began the 
very pleasing occupa- 
tion of counting their 

Carrots was well 
aware that they had 
done a good business ; 
but he was really as- 
tonished on.learning that the " firm " had earned 
two dollars and eleven cents, or, in other words, 
a trifle more than one tenth the estimated cost 
of the stand. 

" There ! " said Teddy, in a tone of satis- 
faction. " That is what I call humpin' our- 
selves ! It won't take a great many days like 
this before we '11 be on our feet in fine shape." 

" That is, if Skip don't bother us." 

"Well, this time his botherin' did us good, 
'cause while the other fellows were talkin' 'bout 
it we were jest shovelin' the money in. Now 
Vol. XXIII.— 18-19. 

we '11 put the two dollars away, an' use the 
'leven cents for a supper. I reckon we can 
get enough bologna an' crackers for that." 
" Ain't there anything on hand ? " 
" Not a crumb. Will you go and get the 
supper, or shall I ? " 

" I 'II go while you put the money away," 
and Carrots was out of the dwelling like a 

W A^^'-Ti 


flash ; but he did not return as soon as Teddy 
expected from his hurried departure. 

More than once Teddy went to the gate to 
listen for him; and at last it seemed certain 
Carrots must have met with an accident. 

" I ought to have gone with him," Teddy 
muttered to himself, " 'cause the chances are 
that Skip has turned up, an' is thumpin' him." 

After waiting ten minutes more, Teddy de- 
cided that it would be necessary to go in search 
of his partner, who might be hurt and unable 
to get home ; but just as he was about to climb 




the fence, the sound of hurried footsteps in the 
alleyway told that Carrots was returning. 

" Did you think I was never comin' back ? " 
the young gentleman asked, as he arrived. 

" Well, it did begin to look that way. What 
kept you so long ? " 

" Wait till I get in the box, an' I '11 tell you 
all about it," Carrots replied breathlessly ; and, 
when they were once more inside the impro- 
vised dwelling, he began his story, even before 
unrolling the packages he had brought. 

" Say, do you know Ikey Cain, the fellow 
I bought that box and brushes of? " 

" No." 

'• Well, he 's a little fellow not much bigger 'n 
Teenie Massey, an' I met him out here by the 
grocery-store. I tell you he 's been in awful 
hard luck, an' he 's all banged up." 

" What 's the matter with him ? Some more 
of Skip Jellison's work ? " 

" No, it ain't that; but he got hurt a while 
ago down to Pier 10, where they was unloadin' 
bananas, and he was layin' for a chance to get 
some. Now there 's a sore on his leg, so he 
can't hardly walk, an' he has n't been able to 
do any work for more 'n three weeks." 

" Where does he live ? " Teddy asked. 

" He stayed at the Newsboys' Lodgin' House 
till his money gave out, an' since then he 's 
been stoppin' anywhere. Say, Teddy, he ain't 
had a thing to eat to-day." 

" Why did n't you give him some of that 
'leven cents ? " 

" That 's what I wanted to do ; but I was 
'fraid you would n't like it." 

" You ought to know better 'n that. I 've 
been hungry myself too many times since I left 
Saranac, not to understand how a fellow feels." 

" I '11 tell you what I was thinkin' of; but 
of course I don't want you to go into the plan 
'less you 're willin'. It struck me as how it 
would n't be any bother if Ikey stayed here 
with us till he gets better. An' jest as soon 's 
he 's well he '11 be willin' to pay us back what 
it '11 cost for his grub. He is n't much of an 
eater, anyway. I could put down three times 
more stuff than he, an' not half try. Why, he 
thinks he 's filled 'way up to the chin if he gets 
one bowl of soup," said Carrots, scornfully. 

" There was n't any need of your askin' me, 

Carrots, if he could come here," said Teddy, 
smiling. " This is your shanty." 

" It 's as much yours as mine, since we went 
inter partnership." 

" It does n't make any difference who owns 
it. I think we 'd better let him in, if he 's a decent 
kind of a boy, an' has been havin' hard luck." 

" Then s'pose I go after him ? He 's down 
by the grocery-store, an' when I left was lookin' 
at a smoked herrin' 's if he 'd draw the back- 
bone right out of it." 

" Shall I go with you ? " Teddy asked. 

" No ; I can get him up here alone if you '11 
stand by the gate so 's to catch him when I 
h'ist him over," said Carrots, " 'cause he 's lame 
an' can't do much shinnin' himself." 

Carrots, not waiting to make further explana- 
tion, ran out from the nest of boxes, clambered 
over the fence, and soon the sound of footsteps 
told that he was running down the alley. 

Five minutes later an unusual noise warned 
Teddy that the invalid was approaching, and 
he took up his stand on the inside of the fence, 
ready to assist. 

" Are you there, Teddy ? " Carrots asked in 
a hoarse whisper. 

" Yes ; let him come ! " 

" I '11 give him a boost, an' you catch hold 
of his hands," was Carrots's reply. 

By moving one of the cases nearer the gate, 
Teddy was able to reach sufficiently high to 
grasp the hand of the lame boy ; and then, by 
the aid of Carrots's " boost," the new member 
of the family was soon inside. 

Teddy assisted the stranger to the box which 
served as a home, and when Carrots had lighted 
both candles he had an opportunity to see the 
boy thus introduced to the household. 

Ikey could never have been called a prepos- 
sessing lad, and his recent hardships had in no 
wise tended to improve his appearance. 

A pair of large black eyes seemed even larger 
than nature had made them, by contrast with 
his pallid face and the closely cropped- hair, 
which literally stood on end in every direction, 
giving him an expression such as one fancies 
would be proper for some bloodthirsty revo- 
lutionist. But, although he looked so thor- 
oughly ferocious, Ikey was by no means a dan- 
gerous character. As Carrots had said, he was 




shorter than Teenie Massey, and the pallor 
of his thin face was emphasized by the many 
streaks and spots of dirt, and the ill-fitting, 
ragged garments gave him the appearance of 
being several sizes smaller than he really was. 

" Jiminy ! you 've got it swell here," Ikey 
said in a tone of admiration, as he gazed around 
at the snug quarters, and especially at the bottles 
used as candlesticks. It seemed to him that if 
they could afford double the necessary amount 
of light, their manner of living must certainly 
border on extravagance. 

" Well, it is pretty fair," Carrots replied, with 
the air of one who thinks it modest to belittle 
his own property. " We manage to get along 
here somehow, an' are goin' to squeeze you in. 
You 're so thin, Ikey, that a sardine-box would 
make a first-rate bed for you." 

" You 're awful good to help me, fellows. 
Jest before Carrots came along I was tryin' to 
make out what I was goin' to do," said Ikey. 

" Well, take hold, an' fill yourself up with 
what we 've got here. P'rhaps we '11 find some 
way to fix you so 's you can walk better 'n you 
do now," Teddy said, as he unrolled the pack- 
ages of provisions Carrots had brought; but 
finding there was not sufficient for three very 
hungry boys, he excused himself long enough to 
purchase a few additions to the collection. 

His sympathies were thoroughly roused, and 
he determined Ikey should have, as he after- 
ward explained, " one square, out-and-out feed," 
if no more. Three smoked herring, three seed- 
cakes, and a five-cent pie comprised the list 
of provisions Teddy brought back. That he 
was guilty of extravagance in purchasing these 
articles shows how deeply he felt for Ikey's 

" This is what you call livin' high," Carrots 
said, as he arranged the feast in the most favor- 
able light. " I reckon you '11 get well if you 
stay here very long, Ikey." 

" If I don't I ought ter be choked ! " Master 
Cain replied emphatically, as he proceeded to 
devour one of the herring first breaking off the 
head and stripping, with the touch of an artist, 
each side of the fish from the back-bone. 

" There 's one bad thing 'bout it," Carrots 
said, as he suddenly thought of what might be 
an awkward predicament for himself. " You 

know, the folks what keep the store don't have 
any idea I 'm livin' here, 'cause if they did 
I 'd be fired mighty quick. Of course you 
can't go 'round town while you 've got that 
thing on your leg, an' you 're bound to stay 
till it gets well ; but, you see, Ikey, it won't do 
to make the least little mite of a noise. Do 
you think you can manage it all day, with 
never so much as a squeak ? " 

" I reckon it would n't be very hard work," 
Master Cain replied. " I 'd be thinkin' how 
much better this was than loafin' 'round the 
streets, an' then I could n't ' yip ' if I wanted 
to, when I 'd know I might lose the snap." 

" And don't show your nose outside this box, 
'cause that would be jest as bad as hollerin'." 

" Don't you worry 'bout me ! I '11 get 
along all right, an' won't make any fuss for 
you," the invalid replied decidedly, as he made 
a pleasing combination of the dried fish and 
pie, by way of a finishing touch to the meal. 

When their guest's hunger had been satisfied, 
the hosts made arrangements for the night by 
giving to the crippled boy the entire pile of 
straw on which to lie, while they slept upon 
the bare boards of the adjoining box. 

On the following morning Carrots was 
awake unusually early, for he thought of the 
necessity of finding something in which to 
bring water, that Ikey might be able to satisfy 
his thirst during the day ; and, without arous- 
ing either of his companions, he attended to 
this important business. 

After a short absence he returned with a 
clean tomato-can as a drinking-vessel, and this 
he filled from the hydrant. 

Teddy was awake when this task was fin- 
ished. There were provisions enough for the 
invalid's meals, and the two boys set out, in- 
tending to prepare for the day by purchasing 
two bowls of Mose Pearson's slate-colored soup. 

" You won't have anything to do but eat, 
Ikey, an' there 's grub enough for that," Car- 
rots said as he left the dwelling. "Take hold 
an' enjoy yourself. We sha'n't be back till 
pretty nigh dark, so don't worry 'bout us, an' 
be sure to keep your mouth shut." 

" I '11 get along all right, an' nobody shall 
know I 'm here," Ikey replied ; and an instant 
later the two merchants vaulted the fence. 

(To be continued.) 

> vftap" 1 fe- 

It was near Gallows Lane, and the Judge 
of Probate was playing leap-frog with the Spe- 
cialist in Diseases of the Eye, in front of our 
little Hidden Hut, while the Bank Director 
and the President of the Gas Company were 
off scouting in the dense woods to guard against 
surprise from imaginary Indians. 

The woods were really very dense and dark, 
even on that midsummer day, but the danger 
from Indians was not at all real. Neverthe- 
less, we regretted the absence of our valued 
colleague, the prosperous Hardware Merchant, 
who, we were confident, would effectually have 
defended our rear. Unfortunately the Hard- 
ware Merchant was unable to be with us, hav- 
ing been " kept in " after school because of 
unruly conduct and of gross failure in his arith- 
metic lessons. (He rarely makes any mistake 
in his arithmetic, now ; or, if he does, his cus- 
tomers exact no penalty.) 

Of course we did not know him as a hard- 
ware merchant, then. Neither was the Judge 
of Probate a judge, at that time. He was sim- 
ply Bob Hanks ; a sprightly, wiry lad of thir- 

teen, full of fun and very larky. Nor had the 
Specialist in Diseases of the Eye chosen his 
profession as yet, being known, to a limited 
youthful public only, as " Rat " Burnham, his 
complete first name being Ratcliffe. We were 
boys, and did not know enough to call each 
other by the titles of our future occupations or 
business pursuits. But our situation as boys 
was, in our opinion, deep, dark, and murky ; 
for a crisis impended and the Hidden Hut 
stood in peril. 

The whole thing began with the President 
of the Gas Company — I mean Lorenzo Paul. 
Such was his romantic name, and his ideas 
were romantic enough to match it. He it was 
who first, incited by Cooper's novels which we 
had all been reading, drew for us ideal pictures 
and diagrams of cave-shelters, something like 
that which Deerslayer made use of at Glen's 
Falls, and then of more elaborate and fantastic 
underground dwellings. He drew careful de- 
signs of these abodes on his slate. 

All these plans conformed to one general 
model. An opening in the earth was con- 



cealed by a solid, but loose and tottering, gran- 
ite boulder, which turned easily on its base and 
could be moved aside at a touch by one who 
knew just how. Under this stone a shaft plunged 
blackly down into the darkness. Access to the 
foot of the shaft could be had only by an up- 
right log in which rude steps were notched. 
But, once at the bottom, you found ample ex- 
cavated apartments, dimly lighted with candles, 
at your disposal. In one room, too, there was 
a fireplace for warmth and cooking, with a flue 
leading up through the solid rock, so tortuously 
crooked that no enemy could ever come down 
through the chimney — and probably no smoke 
could ever have gone up by it. Had we ac- 
tually been able to construct that ideal cavern, 
we would have been stifled with smoke of our 
own making, the fumes of our own hearth-fire. 

The realization of that sooty dream was be- 
yond our power. And so we contented our- 
selves with building a hidden hut in the woods, 
near a rocky cliff. 

In this way Our Secret Society came into ex- 
istence. Having a retreat of this very evasive 
character, it became necessary that we our- 
selves should be extremely devious and furtive. 
We resolved to steep ourselves in a profound 
mystery; and we succeeded. No one, beyond 
the limits of our small and exclusive brother- 

to make the three-mile run to our hut in the 
woods, when the classes were dismissed, with- 
out any fear of starvation at the end of the 
route. Therefore we were never reduced by 


hood, ever gained knowledge of the damp and 
earthy lair we had established, because, when 
we went to the afternoon session of school, we 
always provided ourselves with an extra lunch- 
eon in our inside coat pockets, and so were able 




hunger to 
the ignominy 
of disclosing 
our lodge in 
that vast wilder- 
ness just beyond 
the border of Dun- 
ford, the modest little 
Connecticut city where 
we boys then lived. 

A real paymaster of the 
navy had given us an old 
tin box from the United 
States war-ship " Sabine," duly marked with 
Uncle Sam's initials in white paint ; and we 
filled it with remarkable mementos — such as 
tops, balls, twine, battered coins which we had 
found by experience could not be " passed " 
even upon the most indigent tradesman in town, 
and almanacs of the period. Then we buried 
it in the soil. This box we exhumed at inter- 
vals, with solemn rites ; and no one among out- 
siders was aware either that we had buried or 
had exhumed it — a fact which we viewed as 
an extraordinary triumph of mysteriousness. 

But, on this particular day, there was dan- 
ger ! We feared that our parents had " struck 
the trail," and might discover and destroy our 
secluded cabin. That was why our Bank Di- 
rector and our President of the Gas Company 




were scouting through the shadowy woods, to 
ward off Indians. The Bank Director was do- 
ing wonderful work in the way of detecting 
invisible moccasin footprints on the moss or the 
brown, fallen leaves; and ever and anon the 
Gas President would pat the earth with his jag- 
ged wooden sword, then lift the blade to his 
nostrils, smell of it attentively, and — with a 
glare of wild intelligence — dart away through 
the underbrush in pursuit of some ferocious 
beast or other foe, whose scent he had discov- 
ered by this simple yet astounding process. 
Both these gallant warriors, likewise, gave token 
of their sagacity by raising their right hands, 
arched, to their right ears and listening intently 
to an incredible number of unheard but alarm- 
ing noises. 

Suddenly a wild whoop resounded through 
the dark arches of the forest. It came, evi- 
dently, from the side toward town, in our rear. 
Surprise and massacre seemed inevitable; and 
we doubted whether history had ever shown 
a more somber page than that which was about 
to be turned down over us. The Judge of 
Probate and the Specialist in Diseases of the 
Eye abruptly desisted from their peaceful exer- 
cise of leap-frog, and assumed the defensive. 
The President of the Gas Company and the 
Bank Director, quite as promptly, abandoned 
their scouting, and fell back upon the main- 
line. We were a unit ; we were concentrated ; 
but we were in abject terror. 

The whoop turned out to be only the Hard- 
ware Merchant, — that is, Willard Jones, — who, 
having worked out his term of enforced con- 
finement after school hours, had decided to 
give us a practical illustration of the ease with 
which we might be taken unawares and sur- 
rounded by an enemy of one, and perhaps 
conquered. We did not let the lesson pass un- 
heeded. Thenceforth, each member of the 
society was subjected to severe tests of fitness. 
We also, for further discipline and profit, set 
up a winter lodge in one of the back yards of 
the city itself — a wigwam constructed of planks, 
under the mystic shadow of which we read our 
novels, and burned slow fires of smoky coal 
picked up from the winter supply of various 
houses belonging to our relatives, and to citi- 
zens generally. Here we instituted new and 

special forms of initiation. One of them de- 
pended on a rude scrawl of what the society 
called its " patron saint " : the blurry outline of 
a human figure, painted on a hanging screen 
at one end of the awesome wigwam. This 
curtain-picture was smeared with grease or tar, 
or whatever other compound the society in its 
wisdom might deem especially unpleasant to 
the novice ; and every candidate for admission 
was required to kiss it. As he did so, an art- 
ful member, concealed behind the curtain, 
pushed it forward, and enwrapped the candi- 
date's face, so as to daub him thoroughly with 
the tar or grease. But when he had been 
once inducted, the new member enjoyed the 
priceless happiness of smoking with the rest 
of us a Pipe of Peace, filled with that fragrant 
herb which the " Sweet Fern Committee " was 
particularly empowered and commanded to 
gather all through the summer for winter use. 

And here in the wigwam we kept the bones 
of a pet hen that had inconsiderately died on 
our hands. For some reason we named this 
departed fowl " Mrs. Sill"; and we often went 
through certain dismal ceremonies of honoring 
her remains, with one of our chief officers act- 
ing as master of ritual, in a long gown and a 
volunteer fireman's huge water-proof hat. 

These chief officers were called " willers," 
and whatsoever they willed us to do, that we 
were obliged to perform. Many were the feats 
of bravado or humility they forced us to ac- 
complish. But alas for the power and vanity 
of human ''willers"! — the pride of absolute 
rule led them, finally, to make decree that the 
winter lodge and all its relics should be de- 
stroyed by fire. We met sadly, for that pur- 
pose, but obeyed ; and the precious little shanty 
rolled upward to the sky in a brief, black smoke. 
The Hidden Hut by the cliff in the woods, near 
Gallows Lane, — actually so named, because a 
witch had been hanged there in colonial times, 
— was suffered by our young despots to re- 
main in existence. But as we grew older, and 
drifted apart into business or college, its uses 
lapsed and we left it untenanted. 

Even so long as ten years afterward, the 
Judge, the Director, and I went out to visit 
the sequestered spot, and found a considerable 
part of our little structure still holding together 

i8 95 -: 



in good trim. Yet not through all the period 
of its prime, nor through those following years, 
did the parentsof the members of our order — nor 
did those airy Indians whom we had dreaded — 
ascertain the fact of its existence. The whole 
affair was like a dusky charcoal drawing on a 
stray, forgotten sheet laid away in the recesses 
of our minds. What endless galleries of such 

I met Bob Hanks, the Judge of Probate, 
only the other day : a dry, methodical man, 
with a forehead full of patient wrinkles. "Rat" 
Burnham, too, I have seen frequently. He is 
making a fortune by his curative facility in 
treating diseases of the eye, and never refers 
to that dark episode of our immaturity. The 
President of the Gas Company, once so full of 


twilight pictures are stored up in the brains of 
boys and men ! And, unknown though it be 
to the rest of the world, it is all still as intense 
and clear as possible to the rest of us. That 
terrible moment when Willard Jones's whoop 
rang upon our ears in the vaulted darkness 
of the woods, and the fearful secrecy of our in- 
nocent gloom, and the deep shadow of our 
entirely inane proceedings altogether, linger 
with us now, and form a sober background 
to the recollections of our boyhood. 

frolic and fancy, is now one of the most pre- 
occupied and even mournful-looking men in 
town ; and the Bank Director has fallen a prey 
to dividends and coupons. 

Can it be that the solemn remembrance of 
our juvenile recklessness weighs upon them 
all, and makes them look so sad and careworn ? 
As I say, we rarely speak of Our Secret Society, 
in these days. But the organization was never 
dissolved ; and I am wondering whether we still 
belong to it. 


By Bertha E. Bush. 

They gathered round the tables, 
In the rough, glad days of yore, 

And their boisterous shouts made the 
arches ring 
At the sight of the smoking boar. 

They passed the harp around the board, 

And every one must sing 
For the honor of his lady-love, 

Or the glory of his king. 

The page he lilted a tender lay 
As he lightly touched the string: 

The yeoman shouted a jocund catch 
As he thumped the sounding thing. 

But the herdsman looked at his knotted 

hands : 
'• I should rend the harp in twain ! 
And never a song know I, save the shout 
That calls the cattle again." 

Then loud they mocked at the clum; 
Till he rose with 
a w k w a r d 
And made his 
way to the 
His shame and 
grief to hide. 




But lo ! as he slept on the straw, he caught 

The glint of an angel's wing : 
God's angel placed in his hand a harp, 

And bade the herdsman sinsr. 

' I cannot, Lord, for my clumsy hands, 

And my voice so harsh and loud, 
And I have no words." 

" I will give thee words." 
And Csedmon obedient bowed. 

The herdsman stood in his laborer's smock, 

Nor questioned, but ere long 
Like a child at the voice of his mother, 

He opened his lips in song. 

The lilting page and the mocking knight 
And the yeoman went their way ; 

Their deeds are done, their songs forgot, 
But the herdsman sings for aye. 


By Constance Cary Harrison. 

In a house that was certainly comfortable, 
and according to some standards might have 
been called luxurious, two boys and a girl were 
engaged in animated protest against the decree 
of their mother, who had banished one of them 
from the luncheon-table because he had persis- 
tently grumbled against the food. 

" I don't see why mama is so strict," said the 
offender, Hal, aged fourteen, to whom the sym- 
pathy of his younger brother and sister, Claude 
and Kathleen, was the more grateful because, 
for half an hour past, he had been swelling in 
solitary majesty in the play-room, trying to 
nurse his wrath, and secretly regretting the 
good plateful he had been compelled to aban- 
don. " I don't see why a fellow has n't a right 
to prefer to eat one kind of thing more than 
another. All I said was, that compared to Jock 
Clayton's, where I lunched yesterday, we live 
like a boarding-house. Why, the Claytons had 
entrees in silver dishes, and fruit and flowers 
and candies on the table for everybody, exactly 
as if it were a dinner-party." 

" I wish Jock would ask me sometimes," said 
Claude, enviously. "But I suppose I 'm too 
young for him. I agree with you, Hal, it 's 
pretty tiresome to have fare like ours week in 
and week out — plain roast, plainer potatoes, 
and plainest pudding ! " 

" So it is," chimed in Kathleen. " I 'm al- 
most ashamed to bring one of the girls home to 
lunch. And I 'm sure our father could afford 
to have things a little more swell. We 're not 
poor, so it must be we are stingy." 

" I don't think that," said Hal, who was a 
fair-minded boy, if a trifle inclined to self-indul- 
gence. " My father is one of the most gener- 
ous men that ever lived ; you know how ready 
he is to give us whatever we ask for. I suppose 
it was n't very polite of me to speak so to 
mama, about her table." 

" It is n't really a bit like a boarding-house," 

added Kathleen. " We have the nicest linen 
and silver, and the daintiest-looking table ser- 
vice I know anywhere. But it does seem to 
me ridiculous to make such a point of trying to 
bring us up with simple tastes, as mama does. 
One thing is certain, she '11 never do it." 

" No, she '11 never do it," said Claude, who 
was rather an echo of his clever sister. 

" A girl at school," went on Kathleen, im- 
portantly, " told me she heard a lady say to her 
mother that our mother was so overstocked 
with fads, she pitied her children." 

" She did, eh ? " put in Hal, wrathfully. 
" Well, I 'd like to tell that woman to keep her 
pity for herself. Our mother is just the — " 

" What is our mother ? " asked a lady, enter- 
ing at that moment. 

" The dearest, sweetest, preciousest little 
mammy in the world ! " exclaimed Hal, his 
short-lived anger past, seizing her in a rough 
embrace. " I beg your pardon for the way I 
behaved at table, mother, and you did perfectly 
right to send me kiting out of the room." 

" And do Claude and Kathleen also think I 
did perfectly right ? " said Mrs. Carlton, archly, 
for it was never her way to follow up a victory 
by a lecture. " Ah ! you dear children, though 
I did not hear one word you were saying, I see 
by your faces you were holding a little indigna- 
tion meeting against the powers that be. And 
I think I can guess the subject." 

It was more than Claude and Kathleen could 
do, then, to conceal their sense of shame at hav- 
ing been disloyal to one whom they in truth 
loved and admired heartily — who was the cor- 
ner-stone of their lives and home. So Mrs. 
Carlton's answer was an onslaught of fervent 
embraces, Kathleen crying a little when their 
mother kissed her in token of amity renewed. 

" Now I am going to see if I can get you 
all to understand a little bit of my reason for 
trying to make you share my own simple tastes. 




And to do so, I shall have to go back to 
those days of my early youth you generally 
like to hear about : the days of that dreadful 
war of ours between North and South." 

" When you were still a little unrecon- 
structed rebel, mother, and papa was fighting 
in the Federal army, and neither of you had 
any idea the other was in existence," said 
Hal, drawing his mother to a seat on the 

was the funniest kind of living. I had a little 
hall-bedroom on the fourth floor, and the front 
basement was my father's sleeping-apartment 
by night, and our eating- and sitting-room by 
day. Imagine that — after our great airy, spa- 
cious country home, with all the comforts and 
all the servants! Our only domestic, by the 
way, was a share of our own old black Esther, 
who had been my faithful nurse. She had 


couch beside him, with his arm around her 

"Yes," said the lady, smiling brightly. "You 
know we had been living in Richmond dur- 
ing all the latter part of the siege, and as 
my poor dear trustful father had put his whole 
fortune into Confederate government bonds 
early in the struggle, the winter before the 
surrender of Richmond found us- with little 
more money than enough for the bare neces- 
saries of life. We — your grandfather and I, 
his fourteen-year-old daughter — were inhabit- 
ing two rooms of a lodging-house crowded 
to the roof with refugees like ourselves. It 

hired herself to do cooking and cleaning for 
the lodgers, in order to pay for her own sup- 
port, and at the same time take care of us. 
Dear old black Esther sleeps under a little 
green mound in the forsaken burying-ground 
of our former home in Virginia, and I never 
again expect to find a truer, tenderer heart." 

" Now, mother, none of the doleful part of 
war. We can't stand seeing it make you sad," 
said Kathleen. " Tell about grandpapa's bed 
hidden behind the screen, and the nice hot 
Maryland biscuits old Esther used to make you." 

" She made them when we had nothing left 
but a little flour and salt; for lard in those 




latter days was twenty-five dollars a pound, 
and butter likewise ; and when the day came 
when flour was not, Esther was reduced to 
trying her skill upon all varieties of corn-meal 
cakes — dodgers, scratchbacks, hoe-cakes." 

" What names ! " said Claude, laughing. 

" Those were the names given by the negroes 
to dainties none but a negro hand can make in 
perfection. Day after day, week after week, my 
father, who had never recovered from his 
wound received early in the war, and was very 
delicate, and I, who was hearty and healthy 
and wildly hungry most of the time, sat down 
to the following bills of fare. Breakfast : corn- 
dodgers, with a little fat of fried bacon for but- 
ter; coffee, made of pulverized peanuts, with 
no sugar and no cream. Dinner : a bit of ba- 
con twice a week ; rice ; and, as a great treat 
once in a while, a sweet potato. Supper: corn- 
dodgers, with sorghum molasses. No tea, no 
milk, no butter. Once, that winter, we tasted 
turkey ; once, corned beef. A quart of dried 
apples was an elaborate treat, after Esther had 
introduced them into turnovers, sweetened with 
the inevitable sorghum syrup that, I must say, 
was very poor and sickly stuff. I remember a 
gentleman calling upon papa once brought me 
an orange; and I looked at it a whole day, un- 
able to make up my mind to part with it to a 
soldier lying wounded in one of the hospitals. 
I did want that orange, children, dreadfully. 
There is no use in pretending I did not. In- 
side of me there was a little digestion-mill, for- 
ever at work, forever demanding, like poor 
Oliver Twist, 'more.' If I went out to walk, 
it grew more noisy. Going to bed was really 
the only way to stop its clamoring." 

" You poor little starved dear ! " cried Kath- 
leen. "Tell us the final fate of the orange." 

" A lady brought papa two fresh eggs, and 
when he told me to take those to the hospital, of 
course my orange went too. But really, when 
everybody we knew was living pretty much the 
same way, and no one thought of pitying him- 
self or herself because of scant rations and poor 
fare, it did not occur to me to feel really de- 
pressed over mere hard times. Only, one day, 
I remember coming nearer to despair than 
ever before or since. My midshipman brother, 
on duty on one of the gunboats in the James 

River, below the city, came up, on leave, to 
spend a day with us. (My two soldier bro- 
thers were with Lee, as you know, and when- 
ever we thought of them half frozen and half 
starved during that long and hard winter, we 
never wanted to complain of anything.) How- 
ever, Jimmie arrived, very proud of the gifts 
borne in his hand — a little paper bag of coffee, 
and another of brown sugar, that he had saved 
from his rations, as an offering to his father. To 
cap the climax, a maiden lady from the third 
story of a lodging-house volunteered to lend 
us a bare ham-bone to boil in our pea-soup, on 
condition that Esther, who cooked also for her, 
should put Miss Clark's portion of peas in the 
same pot, and divide the results equally." 

" Ha, ha ! " laughed the children. 

" Old Esther, when she had done hugging 
her beloved ' Marse Jimmie,' and admiring his 
looks and growth, had hustled off to make an 
especial effort in behalf of her darling's dinner. 
Jimmie and I and "Aschenputtel," the pet kitten 
that kept me company when papa was off at 
work as a clerk in one of the government 
offices, then had a regular old-fashioned romp, 
just as noisy, just as ear-splitting as those that 
go on in this room every day; and at the end 
of it Jimmie had a bright idea." 

" I '11 tell you what, Kate," he said. " If you 
think you could hook a saucepan of molasses 
from old Esther, let 's have a candy stew upon 
the grate here. I did n't mean to tell you yet, 
but I 've got a lot of peanuts in my pocket." 

" Nut-candy ? — oh, Jimmie ! " I exclaimed, 
my mouth watering. It was so many months 
since I had so much as dreamed of candy. 
With joyous hearts we set about our prepara- 
tions. Esther, who at ordinary times would have 
pursed up her mouth and frowned over this de- 
mand upon her precious sorghum bottle, yielded 
it to us without a moment's demur. To please 
Marse Jimmie, I think the old woman would 
have cheerfully deprived everybody else in the 
family of needfuls. Refusing her invitation to 
let her boil the syrup in the little cuddy of 
a kitchen she possessed in the back yard, we 
set the saucepan upon the coal fire in the sit- 
ting-room. Aschenputtel, her tail curled over 
her back, looked on approvingly. Jimmie — 
you 'd never have thought our dear youngster a 




hero of battles, blockade-runnings, and bombard- 
ments, to see him then — was chief cook." 

" It is such fun to hear Uncle Jimmie and 
papa talk over the time when they were fighting 
on opposite sides, is n't it ? " asked Claude. 

" No, not that," answered the mother, a look 
of pain crossing her face ; " that part of it I 
want to forget. We have done with it for- 
ever. God grant my children's lives may never 
be clouded by such a war as mine was. But 
the struggles, the ups and downs, the hardships 
that tried our souls and proved the stuff that 
was in us, are what we ought not to forget." 

" The story, please, mama," urged Kathleen. 

" I suppose I may have had as intense in- 
terest in the development of events that came 
later in my life," returned Mrs. Carlton, mer- 
rily, " but I recall none more absorbing than 
the progress of that nut-candy. When we had 
shelled the peanuts and added them to the 
boiling syrup, I found a tin plate, and Jimmie 
poured into it the contents of the saucepan. 
Then, scorning the juvenile indulgence of tast- 
ing the edges of our tempting mess, we went out 
to walk, leaving the plate in the open window, 
and it and the room in charge of the cat." 

" I know what 's coming! " exclaimed Claude. 

" No, Claude, you must n't tell," pleaded 
Kathleen earnestly. 

" It was a brisk winter's day, and our walk 
out Franklin street added to the insistence of 
youthful appetites. Jimmie declared if old 
Esther did n't hurry up the dinner when we 
got back, he should have to read the cookery- 
book to stay his hunger. But, secretly, we were 
dwelling in imagination upon the rich treat that 
was soon to come; and, on reaching home, both 
of us abandoned ceremony to rush pell-mell down 
the basement stairs. Jimmie opened the door 
with a sort of mild Indian war-whoop of delight. 
I responded in the same fashion, and then — 
there, on the window-sill, was indeed our plate 
of nut-candy as we had left it ; but sitting in 
the middle of it, her little red tongue indus- 
triously traveling over every portion within 
her reach, was also Aschenputtel ! Two cats, 
friends of hers, on their hind legs upon a barrel 
in the yard, their heads upon a level with the 
plate, were engaged in licking what the selfish 
hostess had left accessible to their attack ! " 

" That mean little Aschenputtel ! " cried 
Claude, indignantly. 

" Poor little Uncle Jimmie, and poor little 
disappointed mother ! " commented Hal, giv- 
ing his mother's waist a loving squeeze. 

" Mama, what did you do ? " asked Kathleen. 

"I 'm afraid I cried — just a little bit. 
Jimmie, very red in the face, drove away the 
cats, and, taking up the plate, was just prepar- 
ing to throw the whole thing into the yard, 
when a couple of small darky children came 
running down the street, looking so longingly 
at the dish that he changed his mind. ' Look 
here, you youngsters,' he said, ' the cats have 
been licking this ; but if you choose to take it 
and pump on it, you 're welcome to the lot.' 
With grins and bobs, the little negroes took 
plate and all, and scampered away. A moment 
later, my dear father came in from his office. 
As he shook hands with Jimmie and kissed me, 
we saw by his shining eyes that he had good 
news in store. First we thought it was a victory 
of our army; but it turned out to be a little pot 
of strawberry jam which a clerk for whom he 
had done a kindness had sent as a present to 
'his little girl.'" 

" I am so glad," said Claude, with emphasis. 

" So were we," answered his mother. " I 
laid the cloth, and when presently old Esther 
brought in the dinner, what should she do but 
set before her ' Marse Jimmie' a dish contain- 
ing three hot sausages ! Where they came 
from, we could not induce her to reveal. It 
has always been my idea that out of the old 
creature's little store of coins laid by for a 
' rainy day,' she purchased the dainties to re- 
gale her pet. And so, that day at least, we 
feasted like kings ; every morsel put upon the 
table was eaten with hearty relish, and to this 
hour I love the memory of our poor little 
pinched ' refugee ' banquet, where so much 
affection and gratitude and self-sacrifice went 
to furnish the meager board. One thing, es- 
pecially, I remember of it. My father, pausing 
with a morsel of sausage upon his fork, sighed 
deeply and seemed to be looking at something 
we could not see. Jimmie and I knew he was 
thinking about his other children : the two boys 
who, upon hardtack and raw bacon, were then 
wearing out the end of a bitter and hard-fought 

i8 9 5-: 



struggle, — the sons whom never again he was 
to welcome under his roof." 

" Don't, mother! " pleaded Kathleen, her blue 
eyes suffused. 

" Besides, you have Uncle Jimmie, and father, 
and us, and lots of things iwiv," said Claude. 


For a moment Hal said nothing. Then he 
spoke gently : " I understand, mammy dear, why 
it seems to you a pretty feeble thing for us to 
row about trifles the way we sometimes do. 
But it really does n't mean anything. It 's only 
the way of the world, in these days. I believe 
if we had to stand what you and my father cap worn by his father in the Union service, 
did in your youth, we 'd come out all right, and the cap and sword worn in the Confeder- 
and show we are fit to be your children." ate service by the uncle he never saw. 

" I believe so, too," cried his mother, with 
the bright flame of love and trust in her eyes, 
that always made Hal feel he could not be 
unworthy of it if he tried. 

" Mother," said Claude, after one of his med- 
itations, "we 're Northerners, Hal and Kath- 
leen and I. You 're 
sure you forgive us 
for all the trouble 
you went through in 
those days ? " 

" I think so, dear," 
she answered softly, 
while the others 
laughed. Then they 
saw her eyes drop to 
the little gold ring 
she wore upon the 
fourth finger of her 
left hand, and Hal 
thought he under- 
stood what he con- 
sidered his brother 
and sister too young 
and too heedless to 

And after that, you 
think,the Carlton chil- 
dren were models of 
good behavior and 
of contentment with 
their lot ? Well, they 
certainly improved ; 
but, as Hal had re- 
marked, the way of 
the world was against 
them; and, as every- 
body knows, it is hard 
to swim against a cur- 
rent. Still, there are 
many such talks as the one given, to be heard 
in the Carltons' play-room. And now, when- 
ever Hal wants a reminder of more heroic days, 
he slips into his father's library, and looks 
up at the wall above the mantelpiece. There, 
in a glass case, hang together the sword and 


By Rudolph F. Bunner. 

There is a toll-gate hidden away, 

Half in the fields, and half in the trees, 

Where the children, the elves, and the fair- 
ies stray, 
With footsteps facing the twilight breeze. 

The fairies and elves can pass through free, 
But a child must pay for the toll with 
a song, 

Before the fairy land it can see, 

And this must be said, or it all goes 
wrong : 

; I believe in the Three Little Bears, 

And the Prince that climbed the Moun- 
tain of Glass, 

And I know how the Wild Swan's sister fares, — 
So open the gate and let me pass." 



By J. T. Trowbridge. 

[Begun in the November number. ] 


Chapter VII. 


" This is Fred's room, I '11 bet ten thousand 
dollars, or half I 'm worth ! " Osk exclaimed, as 
they entered a chamber that particularly struck 
his fancy. " Does he fence ? or are those foils 
crossed over the mantelpiece just for ornament? 
Now, say, Gid, " — without waiting for a reply 
— " is it here ? " 

" You mean the cup ? No ; it is n't," said 
Gideon, as he pulled down a curtain. " Come 
along, and I '11 show you a den that beats this 
— just a dandy, you '11 say yourself." 

Osk Ordway, bending his brows and peering 
closely at everything, left the room reluctantly. 
Gid waited to close the door after him, and 
then ushered him into a smaller chamber 
across the entry. 

" This is Frank's," said Gideon, proudly ; 
"just a little tumbled up, for he left it in a hurry, 
I guess, the morning they went off, and his 
mother did n't have time to follow him around. 
These bronze horses take my eye — and these 
pictures of horses ! Ain't they fine ? " 

Vol. XXIII.— 20. 153 

" Y-e-s," Osk drawled, scrutinizing every- 
thing ; " nice knickknacks in this room. Does 
he use the boxing-gloves ? " 

" Of course he does, and he '11 box you if you 
don't keep your hands off! " Gid declared, see- 
ing that Osk seemed inclined to handle every- 

" What am I hurting ? " cried the visitor. 
" You 're a fussy kind of a watch-dog. Don't 
you know a friend from a stranger ? " 

" Yes ; but I don't want a thing moved out 
of its place," Gid replied, as he put his head 
out of a window to reach a blind. 

Osk laughed quietly, and took up with his 
thumb and finger an embroidered silk hand- 
kerchief that lay in a rumpled heap on Frank 
Melverton's dressing-table. He had no inten- 
tion of keeping it, but was actuated by idle 
curiosity, quickened, perhaps, by a reckless de- 
termination to do as he pleased in spite of 
Gid's warnings. 

But the lifted handkerchief exposed an 
object that instantly and to a violent degree 
excited his cupidity. It was all he could do to 
keep from grasping it, as he would certainly 
have done if Gid had n't at that moment 



closed the blind with a sharp click, and 
drawn in his head. Osk dropped the hand- 
kerchief again over the glittering temptation, 
and had a few seconds to reflect upon what 
he was about to do before Gid went to an- 
other window. 

When at last Gid turned to his companion, 
he found him standing a little way from the 
dressing-table, with his hands behind him, in a 
most innocent attitude, puckering his brows in 
the subdued light, and whistling softly. 

Gid noticed, as he led the way through the 
lower rooms, that his friend appeared strangely 
absent-minded by fits, and then again unduly 
hilarious ; and finally said to him : 

" What 's the matter with you, Osk, any- 
way ? " 

Osk was ready with an excuse for his moodi- 

" That prize cup," he replied. " You said it 
was n't in Fred's room ; now, where is it ? " 
They had reached the dining-room ; he stood 
before Gideon, laughing maliciously. " You 
don't get me out of this house until you show 
me that cup." 

" I can't. I don't know where it is," said 
Gideon, defending himself, for Osk grasped his 
neck with rough playfulness. " Let me alone, 
Osk Ordway ! " 

" You know where it is well enough," said Osk, 
pressing in his thumb over Gid's collar-bone, 
with a grim consciousness of his superior 
strength. " No use, Gid. I don't go out of this 
house, and I don't let you go, till I 've seen 
that prize cup." 

" I '11 scream ! You hurt ! " Gid cried, trying 
in vain to shake off the ruthless clutch. 

" I '11 hurt more yet, and you won't scream 
twice," replied Osk. He loosened his hold, 
however. " See here, Gid, it 's all in fun ! " 

" Pretty mean kind of fun, I say ! " Gid mut- 
tered sulkily — "choking a fellow that way! 
Will you go now ? " 

" No, I won't," said Osk. " I 'm in earnest 
about that. Oh, come now, Gid ! Just give me 
a peep. I won't touch it, and I won't tell. I '11 
choke you again ! " He laughed, but with a 
keen menace in his eyes. 

" You 'd no business to force yourself into the 
house the way you did, anyway," said Gideon. 


"I made it my business; and here I am," 
replied Osk, with smiling arrogance. " I gen- 
erally have my way about things, don't I ? 
And I stand by the fellows that stand by me. 
I don't care that for the cup," — snapping his 
fingers. " Only I 've said I '11 see it, and I 

Gid expostulated; Osk wheedled, threatened, 
coaxed. And before long the weaker character 

At the end of the dining-room was the hand- 
some sideboard, with a few pieces of china on 
the upper shelf, and closed drawers beneath. 
Gid reached his hand under the large shelf, 
found a key somewhere at the back, and with 
it unlocked the drawer. 

Osk uttered an exclamation of surprise as 
Gid opened the drawer and exposed the gold- 
lined silver prize, on a red napkin. He reached 
to grasp it, but Gid held him back. 

" What you 'fraid of? I won't hurt it," he 
said. " A reg'lar old glory, ain't it ? Open a 
blind, Gid, so we can see it better." 

" Pshaw ! There 's light enough," said Gid, 
hesitating, ye^ pleased and proud to be able to 
excite his friend's admiration. 

The room was indeed rather gloomy. Over 
the sideboard was a high window of stained 
glass, which subdued the light that came 
through it to a deep crimson tone. All the 
other windows had closed blinds. Two, on the 
side of the piazza, reached almost to the floor. 
Gid had just closed one of these ; he now 
raised the sash again, a little way, and, reach- 
ing out, partly opened a blind, letting in a streak 
of brighter light, by which Osk reexamined the 

" I ain't touching it," he said, in answer to 
Gid's remonstrance, as he took the prize up on 
the napkin. "There 's a pile of silver in it, 
Gid. Do you suppose it 's solid ? " 

" Of course it 's solid," replied Gid. " Fred 
Melverton would n't have anything to do with 
it if it was n't." 

" Just heft it," said Osk. 

" I have," said Gid, with a scared sort of 
smile. " I know just how heavy it is." 

" He has n't got his name on it yet," Osk 
observed. " But there 's the rest of the in- 
scription ; so it would have to be melted up." 



" What do you mean ? " cried Gideon, 

" I was thinking. Suppose somebody not 
quite so honest as you and I should have the 
handling of it ! " Oscar laughed. 

" Come, put it back ! " Gid whispered anx- 

" That 's just what I 'm going to do ; and 
you see your showing it to me has n't hurt 
it in the least. But I 'm glad I 've seen it," 
said Osk, replacing the cup in the drawer, with 
the napkin spread out under it. " Now, shall 
I tell you the fault I find with that cup ? " 

" That you did n't win it yourself, I suppose," 
replied Gideon, beginning to feel relieved. 

" That it was n't made to drink out of — 
that 's its chief fault," said Osk, closing the 
drawer. " That ain't my idea of a cup. Splen- 
did as it is, it would n't make your drink taste 
any better. Makes me thirsty, though, think- 
ing of it. Gid," he continued, " my throat is 
dry as an ash-barrel. There must be some- 
thing in this house to treat your friends with." 

" I don't know anything about that," Gid 

" It 's time you did know. Come, I '11 help 
you make discoveries. The expressmen used 
to bring out cases of bottled cider to the Mel- 
vertons. I bet we can find a pint or two left 
over. I 'm going to explore the cellar." 

" No, you 're not ! " And, as Osk started 
off, Gid hastened after him. 

There was another dispute — a scuffle; and 
again the weaker character yielded to the 
stronger. We will not follow them to see what 
they found in the lower regions of the house. 
Osk was smacking his lips and looking com- 
placent when they returned to the dining- 

" Here, don't forget this key ! " he said, 
taking it from the drawer and handing it to 

" I guess not ! " Gid exclaimed, startled to 
think how near he had come to leaving it 
in the lock; and he carefully returned it to 
its place under the shelf. 

He looked around to see that he had left 
the dining-room in good order, and then ac- 
companied Osk to the door by which they 
had entered. 


" You must n't be seen going out of the 
house if you can help it," he said ; " and I 
must n't be seen with you. Get over into the 
ravine, and I will follow, and maybe find you 
down by the river." 

" I 'm going to look at that phcebe's nest 
under the bridge," Osk replied. " It 's time 
for the birds to be starting a second brood." 

" There are eggs in it now," said Gid. " I 've 
seen 'em. But don't you touch one of 'em. 
Little Midget is there, looking into the nest, 
every day, and if it 's disturbed there '11 be a 
row." . 

" Who 's going to disturb it ? " Osk replied. 
Leaving Gid to watch him from the doorway, 
he retired over the bank, and disappeared in 
the ravine. 

Chapter VIII. 


After a little delay Gid passed out through 
the front yard, crossed the street, stepped down 
over a bank-wall near the bridge, and took a 
well trodden brookside path leading to the 
river — a path frequented by fishermen and 
rambling boys, from immemorial time. 

On his right was the brook, which gurgled 
over its stones and pebbles. On his left, clumps 
of sumacs and barberries grew. Passing near 
a mass of these, Gid shied suddenly, like a 
frightened colt, and stepped off, splashing, into 
the water. 

" What are you down there for ? " said a 
mocking voice from the bushes. 

" Osk Ordway ! " Gid exclaimed, scrambling 
back to the path. " You scare a fellow ! See- 
ing your head poked out from the bushes that 
way, — without your hat, — ■ I did n't know you 
from a wildcat." 

" I must have been a pretty tame wildcat to 
sit still while you passed near enough to brush 
my cat's whiskers, if I had had any," said Osk, 
peering up at him with his keen, curious eyes. 
" I 've got something to show you." 

He was sitting on a rock, with his hat be- 
tween his knees, and his hands spread over it 
with an air of mystery. Gid turned pale. 

Ever since parting with Osk, he had been so 



troubled with misgivings in regard to his own 
weak conduct in showing him the cup, that he 
was ready to imagine the most absurd conse- 
quences of his indiscretion. He firmly believed 
that if that daring and unscrupulous youth 
wished to get possession of so much solid silver, 
he would find sure means of doing so, since he 
knew where it could be obtained. And now 
for an instant the wild thought thrilled him, 
that, before his very eyes in the dining-room, or 
perhaps when his back was turned for a mo- 
ment, Osk had by some puzzling feat got the 
goblet into his hat, and that he had it there, 
covered with his hands, in the bushes. 

Of course, it was preposterous. Osk was n't 
a fool ; and if he had succeeded, by any such 
hocus-pocus, in conveying the cup from the 
house, it was extremely improbable that he 
would have sat there, waiting to show it to any- 

That was the conclusion Gid came to, after a 
moment's reflection. " What is it ? " he de- 
manded, with fluttering eagerness. 

And Osk smilingly removed his hands. It 
was, after all, a relief to Gideon to see that what 
they had covered was not the cup. Yet what 
he saw roused his resentment. 

" Oh, Osk ! " he exclaimed, " how could you 
do that ? You promised me you would n't ! " 

"No," replied Osk, coolly; "I said, 'Who 
is going to disturb it? ' I put the question. I 
did n't answer it ; if I had, I should have said 
/was going to. 'Who killed Cock Robin ? I, 
said the sparrow, with my bow and arrow, I 
killed Cock Robin.' Ain't it a daisy ? " 

" Yes — but—" Gid bent over the hat with 
looks of mingled envy and admiration, pity and 
reproach. " Why did you, Osk ? " 

What he saw was something more wonderful, 
rightly considered, than any gold or silver goblet 
the hand of man ever wrought. It was a nest of 
the common pewee, or phcebe-bird, containing 
three of those delicate, white-walled, orbic cells 
of life whose mystery the utmost ingenuity of 
man cannot even comprehend ; each a minia- 
ture world in itself, a pearly drop of beauty in- 
closing a new creation, possibilities of life and 
joy, of song and wings — little marvels we call 

Did you ever see a phcebe's nest ? I will try 


to describe to you this one, which is not at all 
a thing of the imagination, but an actual nest 
that I have just taken from a case where it is 
kept, and placed upon the table before me, 
where I write. It was first shown to me by the 
little deaf-mute himself, when I was visiting at 
the parsonage that summer ; for it was Mid- 
get's delight to lead his friends, young or old, 
down the brookside to the bridge, and let 
them take one peep at the small tower-shaped 
structure under it, built against a beam, over 
the abutting wall. There, in the cool, cavern- 
like gloom, the phcebes had fixed their home, 
undismayed by the hoofs and wheels of the 
highway, clattering and thundering close above 
their heads. A single egg was in the nest, 
when I saw it dimly — undoubtedly one of the 
three Osk afterward carried away. 

Midget would allow me to take only one little 
peep, for fear of worrying the parent birds; 
though they knew him so well as their small 
friend that they did n't appear to be much 
afraid. I can look at the nest all I wish to 

The whole structure is a little more than three 
inches high, and four or five inches across from 
side to side; flat at the back, where it was 
plastered with dabs of mud to the beam, and 
flat also on the bottom, where it rested on the 
abutment wall. It is made of moss, hair, fine 
stems of grass, and twigs or roots almost as 
fine, with here and there a bit of string or fleck 
of wool, all woven together in a firm and com- 
pact mass, with a cup-shaped hollow at the 
top. This hollow is the nest proper, measuring 
about three inches across, and softly lined with 
the fibers and down of plants. When Midget 
climbed up on the stones to point it out to me, 
it looked like a bunch of moss growing on the 
side of the timber, the moss still green with 
the dampness of the place. But the moss 
is now faded, and the nest shows signs of rough 

In this nest there were, when Osk carried 
it off, three eggs, as I have said ; they were 
of a delicate creamy tint, with a few scattered 
reddish spots, chiefly about the larger end. 
These markings were unusually pretty, as Gid 
noticed. Kneeling down and looking into Osk's 
hat, he again exclaimed : 

i8 95 .; 


" What made you do it ? Say ! " 

" I am going to start a collection," Osk 

" Your collection never '11 amount to any- 
thing; none of the boys' collections ever do," 
said Gid. " They get tired of seeing the nests 
knocking around ; some of the shells get 
broken ; then they kick the rubbish outdoors, 
or their mothers do. See here, Osk, take it 
back to the bridge, won't you ? " 

" What '11 I take it back to the bridge for, 
after I 've been to the trouble of bringing it 
away ? " Osk retorted. " I thought the old 
birds would peck my eyes out. Did n't they 
make a fuss and flirt their tails ! " 

" Oh, take it back, Osk, before it is missed ! " 
Gid pleaded, moved partly by compassion, but 
quite as much by his fear of disagreeable con- 
sequences to himself. " It won't be long be- 
fore Midget will notice the trouble with the 
birds, and find out what has happened. 
There '11 be an inquiry, and I 'm afraid I '11 be 
brought into it. You know the law on birds 
and nests." 

" Bah ! " said Osk, contemptuously. -'Why, 
the fellows around here are always getting birds 
and nests, and we never hear of one being com- 
plained of." 

" We never have yet, but it 's going to be 
different now," Gid replied. " I don't dare 
to be seen here with you." 

He looked anxiously up and down the brook 
and over the tops of the bushes to see if any- 
body was in sight. Osk demanded what he 

" Fred Melverton and four or five others have 
agreed together that this robbing nests and 
killing birds must be stopped ; so Fred himself 
told me. They 're going to see that the first 
one caught doing it is prosecuted. There 's a 
ten-dollar fine, you know." 

" But how am I going to be found out or 
complained of? " Osk replied. " Nobody saw 
.me; nobody '11 know it but you; and you ain't 
going back on a friend, Gid. 'T will be all 
your neck 's worth, if you do." 

" No," said Gid; "I sha'n't give you away. 
But I know Fred is in earnest; and his folks 
and the Lisles thought everything of this nest. 
I know I shall be hauled up and questioned." 


" Confound it, yes ! " Osk exclaimed. " And 
you 're one of the kind they can worm any- 
thing out of, whether you want them to or not. 
Why did n't you let on about this agreement 
when I told you at the door I was going for 
the nest ? " 

" I had no idea you would take it ; you said 
as much. You won't dare to start a collection ; 
there '11 be no fun in it if you can't show it; and 
if you show it you '11 get found out, sure." 

" I don't know what I touched the thing for," 
said Osk, looking down with disgust at the 
contents of his hat. " Here, you may take it 
back to the bridge ! " 

" I don't dare touch it ! " Gid exclaimed, re- 
coiling with affright. 

" Then I suppose I must," said Osk ; " though 
I don't see how I am going to make it stay in 
place. It won't rest on the stone unless it 's 
made fast to the string-piece." 

" Can't you stick it on with something ? " Gid 

" I don't know. I can set it on the stone ; 
then if it tumbles off it will look as if it was an 
accident. I '11 manage somehow. And see 
here,' Gid ! " Osk laughed recklessly, ashamed 
of having betrayed such weakness. "If you 
tell on me — you understand ! " 

Gid promised solemnly. " I must go now," 
he said, and hurried away. 

Chapter IX. 


Gideon did not see Osk again for two or 
three days, and he did not venture to look un- 
der the bridge to leam the fate of the phcebe's 
nest. He was only too thankful that Osk kept 
away from him, and he endeavored to forget 
the incidents of that single, compromising visit 
by giving stricter attention to his duties. 

One morning, three days after that memora- 
ble Tuesday, he was running a light lawn- 
mower in front of the house, when two young 
men in trim bicycle suits, mounted on hand- 
some wheels, whirled rapidly into the driveway, 
and dismounted at the piazza steps. 

Gid stopped to lift his hat as they went hum- 
ming past him, muttering to himself, " I 'm aw- 


ful glad he happened to ketch me at work ! " 
while his guilty breast swelled with anxious 

The two riders turned their machines over 
on the turf; and when they stood erect, side by 
side, you could see that one was a full head 
taller than the other. The taller one was Fred 
Melverton. He wore his dark gray cap and 
suit, while his friend, a stranger to Gid, was 
clad in a suit of lighter gray. 

The friend was no such young Apollo as 
Fred appeared. His shorter limbs, however, 
showed a rugged strength; he had a sandy 
complexion, and an expression full of a certain 
bright mirthfulness, which gave a peculiar al- 
lurement to features otherwise rather plain. 
Do you see him in your mind's eye, laughingly 
lifting his cap to pass a handkerchief over his 
face, showing a white forehead crowned by 
carelessly tossed locks of deep-red hair ? Then 
let me introduce him : Mr. Canton Quimby, of 

" Canton " is an odd name for a boy, you 
think. I remember once hearing him tell how 
he came by it. His father, during the early 
years of his married life, served his country 
abroad in various capacities, and his mother 
had named her children after the places in 
which they happened to be born. So the old- 
est girl was called Florence — a very pretty 
name. The second child (also a girl) saw the 
light when the father was secretary of legation 
at Vienna. The parents hesitated a little at 
the name ; but Mrs. Quimby saw no good rea- 
son for objecting to it, and " Vienna" Quimby 
grew up so charming a girl that everybody 
wondered why no girl had ever been so chris- 
tened before. 

" Then my father was sent to Constantinople, 
and there my eldest brother was born. Con- 
stantinople was a poser ! My father would n't 
hear of it, and my mother was staggered. But 
they finally compromised on Constant, which 
is a very good name for a good fellow. You 
will readily understand that I was born in Can- 
ton, — not quite so good a name, but good 
enough for the bearer. So far," young Quimby 
rattled merrily on, "the rule had worked very 
well, and my mother was triumphant. She has 
always been exceedingly tenacious of her ideas; 



but when she had two children born, one in 
Copenhagen and one in Amsterdam, she ac- 
knowledged that the fates were against her. 
They are called Capen and Amy — quite a break- 
down, you see, of her scheme. She could n't 
forgive the government for not sending my fa- 
ther to Paris, and afterward giving him the 
consul-generalship at Rome, when he asked for 
it ; for ' Paris ' and ' Roma ' would have been 
very good names; and a little obligingness on 
the part of each administration would have 
saved her system. But administrations don't 
always consider ! " he concluded, with a laugh. 

But we are rambling from our story, which 
has nothing to do with the Quimby family, 
except that vivacious member of it, the Yale 
junior, who passed his babyhood and got his 
name in China. 

Gid Ketterell, seeing the young master 
beckon to him, left his lawn-mower and has- 
tened toward the house. 

" How are you getting along, Gideon ? " 
Fred inquired. 

"All right, I guess," Gid replied. 

" Any callers since we 've been away ? " 

" Not when I 've been here ; I guess about 
everybody knows the house is shut up." 

" Have you kept it well aired ? " 

" I 've had some of the windows open four or 
five hours every good day." 

" Are they open this morning ? " 

" No ; it seemed so cool this morning," Gid 
said, growing more and more confident, as he 
found himself able to answer these simple ques- 
tions, as he believed, satisfactorily. 

" So cool ? " Fred Melverton smiled, but not 
altogether in approval of Gid's judgment. " It 
is cool, and that is all the better for airing the 
house, as I thought I explained to you. A sim- 
ple fact " — addressing his companion, without 
noticing Gid's blank face — " which it is very 
hard for some people to comprehend. A warm 
south wind let into a cool house, especially into 
a cellar, will often deposit more moisture than 
it takes away. The cold walls condense it ; 
and the owners, who choose such days for ven- 
tilation on the theory that warm air must al- 
ways be a drying air, wonder why their houses 
continue damp, and why the hard-wood floors 
hump, in summer weather." 

i8 95 .] 


The young man again addressed Gideon, 
who stood staring rather stupidly. 

" Don't you remember, I cautioned you 
against opening the windows in muggy wea- 
ther, even if the sun should be shining ? But a 
cool dry air, like this to-day, — wind northwest, 
— admitted once or twice a week, will keep 
even a cellar in good condition. I tried to 
make the reason clear to you : that ordinary 
warm air let into a cool apartment shrinks, and, 
like a moist sponge when you squeeze it, tends 
to part with its humidity ; while a cold current, 
passing through a warm space, expands, and 
tends to suck up any particles of moisture that 
come in its way." 

" But you said it might be necessary to have 
a fire in the furnace, just to dry off the house 
— and that makes hot air," Gid murmured 

For a moment Fred Melverton appeared 
slightly discomfited. The young man who 
was named for a Chinese city looked as if he 
enjoyed Gid's answer, as he did everything 
that could be turned into a joke. 

" Your philosophy has got a poke under the 
fifth rib, Melf! — if philosophy can be said 
to have a fifth rib," he remarked dryly, while 
his eyes danced with suppressed fun. 

A hopeful smile dawned, struggled, and 
finally spread all over Gid's face, as for a 
moment he was made to imagine that he had 
really advanced an argument that had perhaps 
floored a Melverton. 

But Fred was not entirely prostrate, as Can- 
ton Quimby was pleased to observe; he was 
pausing to think how he should shape an ex- 
planation that would enter even the dullest 
comprehension. Not so complimentary to 
Gid's wit as Gid supposed. 

" You say I spoke of a furnace fire. I did ; 
and I said I would send word to you if I 
thought it necessary to build one. Now, what 
does a furnace fire do ? It takes the air from 
out-of-doors, even humid air, and expands it 
so that it becomes a volume of comparatively 
dry air when it is poured through the registers. 
Then all of the air in the house that is n't 
driven out by it warms and expands also, and 
becomes thirsty to absorb moisture. Do I 
make myself understood ? " 


Seeing the blank expression come again into 
Gid's face, Fred Melverton turned once more 
to his friend. 

" A little common sense is a good thing to 
use on occasions ! " he remarked, with an air 
that implied a conscious possession on his part 
of more than an average share of the quality 
in question. 

" I '11 go in now and open the windows," 
Gid volunteered. 

" Never mind," said Fred ; " I am going to 
take my friend in, and I will attend to them. 
Come, Quimby ! " producing a key from his 
pocket, turning it in the lock, and throwing the 
broad front door wide open. 

Gid was n't greatly disturbed by the little 
lecture upon ventilation; any uneasiness that 
might have been caused by Fred's faultfinding 
being lost in a deeper anxiety. With a scared 
smile he watched the two young men as they 
passed on into the house, and then he returned 
slowly to his lawn-mower. 

Chapter X. 

HOUSE ! " 

" Ah, I like hard-wood floors ! " said Can- 
ton Quimby, as he was ushered into the ample 
hallway of the Melverton mansion. "And 
these are fine ones ! " 

" If there 's anything my mother particularly 
prides herself upon," Fred Melverton replied, 
" it is her oak floors. They 're neat, but they 
require a vast deal of attention. They must 
be skilfully laid, and scraped, and dressed, in the 
first place. Then they have to be kept waxed, 
polished, and dusted — every hair or speck 
of lint shows; but all that is very well. The 
great trouble is that they shrink, and the seams 
open, when you have hot furnace fires in 
winter ; and, on the other hand, they swell and 
bulge if the house gathers dampness in sum- 
mer. Hence the need of careful management 
of your fires, and of a rational system of ven- 
tilation. I explained everything to that boy the 
first day he was here, and you see the result." 

" We must n't expect too much of the aver- 
age human biped's intelligence," said Quimby, 




as the two passed on into the dining-room. 
" What a floor for a roller-skating rink ! " he 
exclaimed, laughing. 

" My mother would be horrified if she should 
hear you say that," replied his friend. " Sit 
down, old fellow, and I '11 see if I can scare 
up a little refreshment. I think it will be ac- 
ceptable after our eighteen-mile run, and with 
another eighteen miles before us." 

He started to open a window on the side 
of the piazza. 

" Look at that ! " he exclaimed. " This sash 
is n't fastened. Nothing to prevent a person 
outside from pushing it up and walking right 
in ! Pretty careless, I say, if it 's true that boy 
has n't been in and unfastened it this morn- 
ing. I rather think it 's a good thing I took 
a run up here to look after matters." 

"It 's a magnif old dining-room!" Canton 
Quimby remarked, casting an admiring eye 
over the walls and ceiling. Then, seating him- 
self with a smile of content near the table of 
polished antique oak, he went on to praise the 
stained glass over the sideboard, the fireplace, 
and the carved mantel, in a way that made his 
friend pause and regard him with quiet satis- 

" Say all that to my mother if you wish to 
please her. This dining-room is her favorite 
room. Now sit and admire it, while I see 
what I can find. I can't promise much. I fore- 
warn you that we 've come to a poverty-stricken 

"'Beggars all, beggars all, Sir John!'" 
quoted his friend, with a laugh. 

" You '11 find, to your sorrow, there 's more 
truth in that, in our case, than there was in 
Master Shallow's," replied Fred. 

From an adjoining china-closet he brought 
out a dish of crackers and a jar of olives that 
had been left behind by the family in its flight; 
and, putting a plate before his friend, bade him 
" nibble " while he went in search of some- 
thing " moist " ; at the same time winking sug- 
gestively, and making with his mouth a sound 
as of a popping cork. 

" I 'm glad I came," said Quimby, winking 
in return, and proceeding to harpoon an olive 
with the long-handled jar-fork. " Do you 
know," he called after Fred, who was departing 

for the cellar, " in the six months we spent in 
Italy and France, we never saw such olives as 
these ? " 

" That 's another observation that will please 
my worthy mama," Fred replied, pausing with 
his hand on the door-knob. " But that may not 
be saying very much ; one never seems to see 
any first-class olives in Italy." 

He went off in high spirits, was gone an " un- 
conscionable while," his friend thought, and 
finally returned with a frown on his brow, and 
a solitary pint bottle in his hand. 

" You '11 think I 'm a jolly fraud ! " he de- 
clared. " I could have sworn there were at 
least three or four bottles of cider in the case. 
But the bottles of cider have been reduced to 
mere cider-bottles — all empty but this ! " 

" Well, that will be empty pretty soon ; so 
don't worry," the guest replied gaily. 

"But I 'm astonished — I 'm mortified!" 
Fred exclaimed. " It 's like the fox inviting the 
crane to supper — though in this instance the 
fox is as badly off as the crane." 

" You don't imagine that lubber outside — ? " 
Quimby suggested. " I noticed he smole a 
smile, when he saw us coming in, not quite 
healthy; like a smile raised under glass — rather 
forced ; not the smile of an easy-conscienced 

" I did n't notice it." Fred opened the bot- 
tle, darkly musing. "I '11 have him in here, 
and start an inquisition." 

" There, there ! Hold your horses ! " cried 
the guest, as Melverton was filling his glass. 
" Don't give me more than my share, or I '11 
swap glasses with you. Good sparkle, hey? 
I 'm glad he had the considerashe to leave us 
even one bottle ! " 

" I really can't think he has taken any," 
Fred remarked, seating himself opposite his 
friend. " He is n't that kind of a boy." 

" There are always fewer bottles in a case 
than you think there are," the red-haired one 
suggested, as he nibbled and sipped. " To be 
quite confidensh with you, Melf, your little lunch 
is n't half bad ! It goes to the right spot — if 
I 've got a right spot, and know where to locate 
it. The cider 's splendif ; just the right age. 
And enough of it. I never take anything 
stronger. I 'm a tee-tote, myself." 

i8 9S .: 



" So am I," said Fred; "though I think we 
might stand another bottle, without breaking a 
pledge. Now," — he put a fragment of cracker 
into his mouth, and rose, leaving his glass un- 
finished, — " I 've told you what my mother is 
proud of; what I 'm proud of, is here." 

So saying, he pulled the drawer open, and 
then stood looking down into it with dumb 

" What 's the troub' ? " cried the guest, also ris- 
ing from the table, with an olive in his fingers. 

" The cup ! " ejaculated the dazed young 


" Oh, your prize ! I had n't forgotten that," 
replied the guest ; that being, indeed, one thing 
he had made the morning's ride to see. 

Melverton turned to the sideboard, reached 
under the shelf, found the key, fitted it in the 
lock, and uttered an exclamation. The key 
would n't turn ! 

" But it turns the other way," he said imme- 
diately. "Do you see? — the drawer was n't 
locked ! Strange things happen in this house, 
in our absence ! " 

( To be con 

man, pulling the drawer well out, and staring 
into it. " The cup is gone ! " 

With hurry and trepidation Fred opened in 
turn all the drawers, then backed away from 
the sideboard, regarding it with brows con- 
tracted and lips compressed, in utter amaze- 
ment and incredulity. 

Then he turned to his companion. 

" You '11 think I 'm a bigger fraud than ever ! " 
he exclaimed. "But, by George ! wherever it 's 
gone, there was a cup ! " 

tinned. ) 

Vol. XXIII.— 21. 




By Helen E. Greig. 

St. Nicholas has already told you about 
"Owney" (in the number for March, 1894), 
and you all know that he is the queer travel- 
ing dog, who likes nothing so well as going 
on the trains with the mail-bags North and 
South and East and West. 

He has traveled from Alaska to Texas, from 
Nova Scotia to Florida, from Pennsylvania to 
Missouri — making side journeys and "stop- 
overs " as pleased him, either for rest or feeding. 

As you have been told, he first joined the 
Post-Office Department at Albany, New York. 
He either wandered in or was left there by 
some boy who came on an errand. Not being 
a letter, he was never advertised, and never 
called for. 

Owney's pedigree is not worth bragging 
about ; he is mainly what is known as a mon- 

grel, but he has signs of some purer blood. 
Neither is he a handsome dog, but he has ex- 
cellent qualities, and is kindly and intelligent. 

When Owney found himself an uncalled-for 
package, he did not begin to whine, or bark, 
or fear he was unwelcome, but sought to 
make himself agreeable, and to win friends. 
Finding that Uncle Sam was willing to keep 
him in comfortable quarters, Owney gladly ac- 
cepted the situation. And now, no matter how 
far away he may travel, he is known as 
"Owney, the Albany Post-Office Dog," and is 
everywhere considered as a popular member of 
the department. 

" How do you know when Owney has gone 
on a trip ? " I asked the man who especially 
looks after Owney's interests. 

" Why, when the cat comes in the office, we 



know that Owney is away," he replied. "And 
the dog is away from home so much, that the 
cat is seldom obliged to move out." 

" Tell me how he begins a journey. Does 
he know which is the postal-car ? " 

" Know ? Of course he does. He knows a 
postal-car as well as any postal-clerk. When 
the mail is sent to the station, Owney jumps on 
the wagon, and stays there until the last bag 
is thrown into the car. If he feels like taking 
a journey, he then jumps aboard the car, barks 
good-by, and away he goes. Once on the train, 
he is the guest of the clerks at the offices along 
the road." 

He wears a fine silver collar, marked " Owney, 
Albany P. O., Albany, N. Y.," and with him is 
often forwarded a book in which is kept a rec- 
ord of places he visits ; and a very interesting 
story the book tells. 

The first entry is " New Westminster, British 
Columbia." Then comes " Seattle, Washington 
Territory." Next, Owney was the guest of the 

While he was at Bozeman, Montana, and, I 
fancy, a little homesick, this letter was written 
for him to his good friends at Albany : 

Dear Folks : I arrived here last night safe and sound 
from Spokane. I go to Helena, Montana, to-morrow. 
I have twenty medals on my collar, am fat, and feel well. 
I start east on the 4th. I will be glad to see you all. 
Your friend, Owney. 

Detroit, Michigan, contributed this short bit of 
doggerel : 

Owney is a tramp, as you can plainly see. 
Only treat him kindly, and take him 'long wid ye. 

Baltimore joins in with this : 

Once there was a dog that took it in his head 
Never to stay at home, ever to roam instead. 
You have him now : send him on ahead. 

At Seattle Owney was so well treated that he 
stayed a long time — for him. In fact, he 
jumped from the postal-car and returned there 
for another good time. A blue ribbon was 
attached to his collar by an admiring friend. 

post-office at Portland, Oregon, after which he 
is found at Hardacre, Minnesota, under which 
name occur these lines: 

On'y one Owney, 

And this is he ; 
The dog is aloney, 

So let him be. 

A letter from the Railway Clerks' Association 
at Atlanta, Georgia, says : 

Owney received an ovation here. After consenting to 
sit for his photograph, and answering several questions, 
he was decorated with a medal bearing the inscription, 
" Compliments of the R. R. Club," and was carried by 
members to the postal-car. 




m-JgfJP 1 


Among O wiiey's chiefest trophies is a dupli- 
cate of the seal of the Postmaster-General. A 
tag made of California tin was given to him in 
San Francisco. 

Postal-clerks everywhere are loud in their 
praises of the dog. One of them writes : 

Owney is excellent company. When we arrive at 
stations where the train stops " twenty minutes for re- 
freshments," the dog walks into the station and barks 
for bones. When the bell rings "All aboard! " he is 
the first one on the train. 

He can tell the difference between a whistle for a 
crossing, and that for a station; while he ignores the 
first, he is up and ready when the station "whistle blows. 
He takes his place on the platform, and waits until the 
mail is thrown off, and then goes back to bed on the 

There was some talk of sending Owney to 
the World's Fair at Chicago, with all his medals, 

and I am sure that, on his merits, he would 
have taken first prize. 

At a San Francisco kennel exhibition, Owney 
received a very handsome silver medal as the 
" Greatest Dog-Traveler in the World." 

But the little dog is more than a mere curi- 
osity. He is a faithful friend and companion. 
It is said that several times a sleepy and 
worn-out postal-clerk, who had fallen asleep, 
forgetful of the stations, has been wakened by 
Owney's barking, and has thus been reminded 
to throw off the mail-bag. 

Owney has never been " held up " by train- 
robbers, but he has been in more than one 
wreck. Except for the loss of the sight of one 
eye, however, the dog is still in good trim. 

You have heard of his wanderings — now 
you shall hear of his home-coming. 

When he reaches the Albany Post-Office, he 



I6 5 

but though his hosts treated him well, he be- 
came ugly before the end of his stay because 
he was kept from taking the trains. 

Owney does not like to be interfered with, 
and " makes a fuss " unless he is allowed to take 
the first train that leaves a station. Of course 
the dog does n't care where he goes, but the 
post-office clerks like to send him where their 
friends will see him, when he happens to get 
off the through lines. 

Mr. Leek relates also that before the Boston 
Union Station was built Owney would cross 

walks in with wagging tail, and beaming with 
joy to be at home again. Going up to the 
good friend who looks after him, Owney rubs 
against him and licks his hands. Thus he bids 
all the clerks good-morning, wags his tail for a 
" how-d'-ye-do ? " and, returning to the spot he 
left months ago, Owney lies down and sleeps 
for hours. But after this first greeting there is 
no familiarity. 

While in Albany, Owney goes to a certain 
restaurant near the post-office, and then care- 
fully selects, from the food offered, just the 
bones he prefers. He 
arrives there every day 
at the same hour. If 
the restaurant fails to 
supply the food that 
Owney is seeking, he 
goes to a hotel across 
the street, where he is 
sure to find a meal. 

From Mr. George 
H. Leek, of Lawrence, 
Mass. , thephotographer 
who took Owney's pic- 
ture, comes a letter to 
the editor of St. Nicho- 
las telling how the 
famous dog behaved 
when he sat for his 
portrait. At first Ow- 
ney ran about the stu- 
dio, and seemed anxious 
to find a way out ; but 
when the dog saw that 
a mail-pouch had been 
placed for him to sit 
upon, he at once lost 
his restlessness and 
made an excellent sitter. 
" I had no trouble in 
taking all the views I 
wanted, as long as he 
was on the pouch," 
says the photographer. 

Mr. Leek repeats a story that tells how the the city at midnight or any other hour, and 
letter-carriers of Lawrence, Massachusetts, kept would take little trips for himself, returning 
Owney as an attraction for their picnic, which just before train time. 

was to be held two weeks after Owney's arrival. When Owney's picture was taken his tags 
The dog was very interesting to the visitors, were few — he had been unloaded. The dog's 


1 66 



collar is full, and his original harness is full. 
Owney values his collar, and knows that it in- 
troduces him to strangers in the postal service. 
It is easily slipped off, and he allows it to be 
taken off and examined; but after he has given 
his friends a reasonable time for study of the 
tags, checks, and other attachments, the dog 
shows very plainly that he would like to have 
the collar put on again. 

Once while the clerks were looking over the 
recent tags a mail-train arrived, and they put 
down the collar to go to work on the mail. 
But the dog was not willing to leave his collar, 
and, putting his nose through it, he slipped it 
on for himself. After the clerks had learned of 
this accomplishment they often used to make 
Owney exhibit his cleverness by repeating the 
performance before their friends. 


"" ff#Ajl*S : 

'," ?f!|fflfl|V 

(LnEEnT. aif©C3C3 (g.^ |B&®®K@= 

(A True Story.) 

It was a new gun and a big one — big enough 
for most boys to crawl through, though they 
would have had to crawl forty feet before reach- 
ing the other end. 

One boy did try it, but when he was half-way 
through he became tired, and then got fright- 
ened at his cramped position and began to cry. 
Some workmen heard him, and, looking in to 
see which way he was heading, they put a long 
rammer-staff against his feet, and shoved him 
out as they would a shot. 

We were testing this big gun to see that it 

was sound and strong. We always tested every 
gun before it went into service. 

" We " consisted of the captain who super- 
intended the tests, of the men who loaded and 
worked the gun, of the lookout who scanned 
the water with a telescope to see that the range 
was clear, of myself who aimed and fired the 
gun, and, last but not least, of my dog, " Bomb- 
shell." I called him Bombshell because he 
was so fond of the shooting. He was always 
on hand when we tested a gun, and I cannot 
recall a single trial that he missed. 

i8 9 5- 



Bombshell was a handsome Irish setter, and 
had more sense than most people. There were 
few things that he did not understand. He 
might not see through them at first, but if he 
did not he would think about them, and reason 
over them until he did understand them. 

I know that he did think and reason, for 
I had seen him do it many times. 

No one who knew Bombshell ever doubted 
that he reasoned and thought, but occasionally 
I would find a stranger who was not inclined to 
believe it, and then I would tell him the follow- 
ing story : My parlor was a front casemate 
which opened by an arch into my bedroom, a 
back casemate. A casemate may be described 
as a room in the wall of a fort, generally in- 
tended, in war time, to hold a gun or powder, 

"'suppose that my master has n't gone?'" 

while in time of peace many of them, like mine, 
are fitted up for use as quarters for officers 
and soldiers. 

Bombshell had his own bed in the back case- 
mate ; but he preferred my bed. and would use 
it whenever he could. I had tried to break 
him of the habit, but had not been successful. 

One day he came in wet and muddy, and, as 
usual, he curled up on my white counterpane. 
The result was awful ! As much as I hated to 
do so, I felt obliged to give him a thrashing. 

I never caught him on my bed again. He 
would still get on it ; but, no matter how 
quietly I came in, I would always find him on 
the floor, though I could see from the rumpled 
condition of the bed that he had been on it, 
and often the spot where he had slept would 
still be warm. 

"he walked to the door and listened." 

One evening I went out, leaving Bombshell 
lying by the parlor stove. 

Out of curiosity I peeked through the half- 
turned slats of my shutters and watched him. 
From my position I was able to see the whole 
of both of my rooms. 

For a while Bombshell did not move ; then 
he raised his head and looked at the door; 
finally he got up, stretched himself, yawned 
sleepily, walked to the bed, jumped up, and put 
his fore paws on it. Standing in this position, a 
thought struck him, and he said to himself: 

" Suppose that my master has n't gone ? He 
will catch me, and then I will get a licking. 
I '11 go and make certain that he is not coming 

I know that he said this because he took his 
paws off the bed, walked cautiously back to 
the front door, and, with his ear close to the 
crack, he listened. At last, satisfied that I had 

" HE curled up and went to sleep." 


bombshell; an artillery dog. 


really gone, he trotted back to the bed, jumped 
on it, curled up, and went to sleep. 

After such a clever act I thought that he 
had earned his sleep, so I went away and 
left him. 

Bombshell, I was sure, had reasoned out 
everything connected with the firing of a gun. 
He knew that the powder made the noise, 
that the shot did the damage, that the lookout 
saw that the range was clear, and that the 
bomb-proof was to shelter us in case the gun 
should prove weak and burst. 

that to him had been intrusted the duty of see- 
ing that the range was clear. 

But when we started for the bomb-proof, in- 
stead of following us, as was his custom, Bomb- 
shell remained on the parapet, looking out to 
sea and sniffing the air. In a moment he 
dashed off through the bushes which covered 
the narrow beach between the parapet and the 

Though thinking his actions peculiar, I was 
sure that he would not remain in front of the 
gun, because he had done so once, when quite 


While a gun was being loaded, Bombshell 
would sit on the parapet and watch the opera- 
tion. That finished, he would jump up and 
look out to sea over the range, and then 
scamper down from the parapet and follow us 
into the bomb-proof. 

As usual, Bombshell was on hand to see the 
test of the new big gun. 

He superintended the loading, and, while I 
was aiming the gun, he looked over the range 
as carefully as did the lookout; and from his 
air of responsibility one might have supposed 

young and inexperienced, and the burning 
grains of powder — which are always thrown 
out by the blast of a gun — had buried them- 
selves in his skin, burning him badly. He had 
never forgotten this. 

Certain that he would take care of himself, 
I paid no further attention to him, but went 
with the others into the bomb-proof, and took 
my place by the electric key, ready to fire at 
the command of the captain. 

Just as the command " Fire! " was about to 
be given, Bombshell reappeared on the parapet 

bombshell; an artillery dog. 


and began to bark furiously into the very muz- 
zle of the gun. 

I called to him, but he would not come. 
Annoyed at the delay of the test, I tried to 
catch him, but could not do so. As I ap- 
proached he retreated, still barking and appar- 
ently urging me to follow him. 

Finally, convinced from the dog's actions 
that something was wrong, the electric wire 
was disconnected from the gun, and I followed 
Bombshell. Wagging his tail with joy at hav- 
ing accomplished his object, he led me through 
the underbrush to the beach. 

There, concealed behind a clump of bushes, 
were two little children quietly digging in the 
sand and entirely unconscious of the danger in 
which they had been. 

I knew then that when Bombshell had been 

standing on the parapet sniffing the air he had 
been saying to himself: 

" Some people are in front of the gun. I can 
smell them. If they are there when the gun is 
fired they will be burnt, as I was, and perhaps 
deafened besides by the blast of the discharge. 
I must find out for certain and prevent the gun 
from being fired." 

Bombshell received great praise for his saga- 
city, and the men declared that he deserved a 
medal, so they had one made and presented it 
to me. Bombshell wears it on his collar now, 
and on it is engraved : 

" Presented to Bombshell as a reward for 
having saved two little children from serious 
injury by the discharge of a large gun." 

Bombshell is very proud of his medal, and I 
believe that he knows its meaning. 


By Harriot Brewer Sterling. 

If Santa Claus should stumble. 

As he climbs the chimney tall 
With all this ice upon it, 

I 'm 'fraid he 'd get a fall 
And smash himself to pieces — 

To say nothing of the toys ! 
Dear me, what sorrow that would bring 

To all the girls and boys ! 
So I am going to write a note 

And pin it to the gate, — 
I '11 write it large, so he can see, 

No matter if it 's late, — 
And say, " Dear Santa Claus, don't try 

To climb the roof to-night, 
But walk right in, the door 's unlocked, 

The nursery 's on the right!" 

Vol. XXIII. —22. 


By Eva P. Brown. 

Did you ever hear the story of that little peanut Whose legs were made of matches, whose clothes 
man — __ were made of patches? 

That funny little man, that cunning little man? Oh, that funny little, cunning little peanut man! 

Who wore a fancy costume made on a novel plan, 

Whose eyes were made of ink-strokes, whose With arms both set akimbo — oh, he was a funny 
nose was all a-whack, sl ght . 

Whose mouth was nothing else than a crooked That funn >' little ma »> that cunning little man ! 

little crack, 

He had whiskers made of worsted, all striped in 
black and white ; 
On his head he wore a comical and high-peaked paper hat, 
With a feather in the rim of it. What do you think 
of that ? 
' Where was he ? " Now you ask it, I think 't was 

in a basket. 
Oh, that funny little, cunning little peanut 
man ! 

' And the basket? " In the parlor un- 
derneath a great arm-chair, 

That funny little man, that cunning 
little man ! 

For it was Ethel's birthday, and the 
cousins all were there, 

And they had a peanut party, which, 
you know, is lots of fun, 

And all the peanuts had been found, 
except this slyest one ; 

When something Nellie spied, and 

this is what she cried : 
'Oh, that funny little, cunning little 
peanut man ! " 

I 7 I 


The Little Schoolma'am asks us to say that the 
unprecedented number of answers received to the puz- 
zle-poem, " Marian's Adventure," has upset all calcula- 
tions, and made it impossible to reach a decision in time 
for this number of St. Nicholas. 

To give some idea of the deluge of letters, it need only 
be said that fully five thousand came in during the first 
ten days. 

The answers are being examined as rapidly as is prac- 
ticable, and the awards of prizes will surely be ready for 
the January St. Nicholas. 

Our young readers may like to hear more about 
Csedmon than is told in the poem on page 145 of this 

Caedmon lived in the seventh century, and was a ser- 
vant in Hild's monastery, that stood on a high cliff over- 
looking the German Ocean, at Whitby in Yorkshire 
(the same town mentioned in the story " Betty Leices- 
ter's English Christmas "). The gift of song, or poetry, 
came to Csedmon in a dream, after he was a mature man. 
He wrote a poem, telling, in the English of his day, the 

events recorded in the Old and New Testaments, most 
copies of which were then, of course, in Latin, and not 
read by the common people. 

Casdmon's poem was considered a masterpiece in his 
own day, and portions of it have been preserved to this 
time: one quotation, it is believed, was recorded by 
Good King Alfred himself. 

As the earliest specimen of English verse, and an at- 
tempt to tell the Bible stories for the people, Csedmon's 
lines are now sure of preservation, and may therefore 
truly be said to " sing for aye." 

It is not certain what form of harp was played upon by 
Caadmon, but probably it was a smaller harp than the 
illustrator of the poem has chosen. Still, tall harps were 
known in the earliest times, and may have been used 
occasionally in England. 

All readers of St. Nicholas will be glad to learn 
that with the January number we shall begin a new 
serial by the author of " Chris and the Wonderful Lamp. " 
The new story is called " Sindbad, Smith & Co." 


The readers of the interesting article, in this num- 
ber, about " Owney " will be glad to see the following 
letter : 

Atlanta, Ga. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have been taking you for 
two years, and always look forward to your coming. 

The great " Cotton States and International Exposi- 
tion " is in full blast now, and there are many things to 
be seen ; but what I want to tell you about is an exhibit 
in the United States Government Building, which will 
interest all who read the story of " Owney, of the Mail- 

I send you an exact copy of the letter. 

Railway Mail Service. Office of Superintendent. 
New York, N. Y., May 19th, 1894. 
Hon. James E. White, Gen. Supt. R. M. S. 

Enclosed herewith I send you a package of medals 
taken from the dog "Ownie" for the Postal Museum, 
as you request. R. C. Jackson. 

There were puzzles, souvenir spoons, key-rings, 
name-plates, railroad checks, hotel checks, medals, tags, 
etc. Your devoted reader, 

Willie Parkhurst. 

It appears that the United States has not a monopoly 
of railroad-traveling canines. A correspondent of the 
"Spectator" sends from South Australia the following 
story of a dog who is never happy except when traveling 
by railway : " His name is ' Railway Bob,' and he passes 
his existence on the train, his favorite seat being on top 
of the coal-box. In this way he has traveled many thou- 

sands of miles, going over all the lines in South Austra- 
lia. He is well known in Victoria, is frequently seen in 
Sydney, and has been up as far as Brisbane ! The most 
curious part of his conduct is that he has no master, but 
every engine-driver is his friend. At night he follows 
home his engine-driver of the day, never leaving him or 
letting him out of his sight until they are back in the 
railway-station in the morning, when he starts off on an- 
other of his ceaseless journeyings." 

As the last report from Owney says that he was 
" coaxed on board of the Northern Pacific steamer at 
San Francisco," it may be that Bob and Owney will 
some day be fellow-passengers on an Australian train. 

Bakersfield, Cal. 

Dear St. Nicholas : This is the third year we have 
taken your delightful magazine. 

This summer we camped on Mt. Breckinridge, which 
belongs to the Sierra Nevada range, and is seven thou- 
sand feet above the sea-level. In coming the forty-three 
miles from Bakersfield we rise sixty-five hundred feet. 
On top of the mountain there is a saw-mill which is 
busily sawing the pine-trees into lumber. 

My brothers have a burro and cart, and my older sister 
and myself have a saddle-horse. 

There is a bear-trap about two miles from our camp, 
and they have caught eight bears in it this season. Twice 
they have caught cubs, and the mother bear has helped 
her cubs out. 

Many wild flowers were in bloom when we came in 
June, and among the prettiest was the Mariposa lily, 


l 73 

which is found in so many different shades that it is often 
hard to find two exactly alike. It was a question be- 
tween that and the eschscholtzia (or California poppy), 
when the latter was chosen for the State flower. 

Your devoted reader, Harriet R. W . 

Honolulu, Hawaiian Is. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I am a Hawaiian-born Ameri- 
can girl, twelve years old. My father is the Chief Jus- 
tice of the Hawaiian Republic. I have one sister and 
seven brothers, the two eldest being Juniors in Yale 

There are many kinds of fruit here : alligator-pears, 
guavas, bananas, mangos, papayas, mountain-apples, 
oranges, limes, tamarinds, and many other kinds. 

My father has fifteen riding-horses, and about three 
carriage-horses. I have a horse, Mexican saddle, side- 
saddle, bridles, and blanket of my own. 

Every summer, all of our family spend a month in the 
country at my cousin's horse- and cattle-ranch. 

We all ride over there on horseback, except my father 
and mother. After our visit there, we ride around the 
island. It is sixty miles. We ride forty miles a day; 
but I never get tired. 

I think the Hawaiian Islands a very nice place to live 
in. We have the sun all the time except when it rains, 
and in our winter the nights are only a little cooler than 
the summer nights. 

There are eight islands in this group. Honolulu is 
on the island of Oahu. 

Your sincere reader, Sophie B. J . 

Glen Road, Jamaica Plain, Boston. 

Dear St. Nicholas: Although I have taken your 
paper for five years, I have never before written to you. 
I have enjoyed St. Nicholas ever so much, and all 
my friends that take it pronounce it "a corker," "a 
dandy," "a brick." Perhaps these expressions are 
very bad and slangy, but I am sure they are the most 
expressive of good opinion. 

When I was a little girl, as indeed I am now, I used 
to be very fond of making bits of poetry. 

My first piece I wrote some three years ago, and called 
it " Mayflowers." The family all thought it "perfectly 
lovely," but of course it was something too funny to 
read, it was so full of mistakes, and lines that did n't 
rhyme. Then another silly piece was entitled " Lady 
Moon," and another "The Seasons." I tried to make 
them all just as poetic as possible, and sometimes would 
lie awake at night trying to think of rhymes. 

The enclosed is one written two years ago, when I 
was twelve. 

Yours very sincerely, " Blunderbuss." 


'T is Christmas day; goodwill to all, 

And unto all be peace ! 
Let all the world be as one man, 

And let all sorrow cease. 

The youthful choir in the old gray church 
Are singing with joy and mirth, 

While the snow piles high upon the walls, 
Of the dear old Mother Earth. 

The holly-wreath and mistletoe 

Are heaped in every hall, 
And a fire burns on every hearth, 

As the snowflakes gently fall. 

Along the road at every bend, 
The sleigh-bells' ring is heard. 

The snow is scattered, here and there, 
With crumbs for every bird. 

So once a year, when Christmas comes, 

Let every sorrow cease ; 
And let there be for everyone — 

Joy, and goodwill, and peace. 

" Blunderbuss. 

Bromley, Alabama. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have been taking you three 
years, and am much interested in your stories. 

I am a little girl ten years old, and live in a small vil- 
lage called Bromley, situated on the banks of the pretty 
little " Bay Minette " creek. Mother and I live with my 
aunt, who has ten children. We have great fun in the 
summer: fishing, rowing, and bathing in the creek. 

My aunt has a horse, and as I have no sisters or bro- 
thers, I and my cousins go horseback-riding very often. 

I have a pet cat named " Romeo," and a calf named 
"Monte Cristo." They are almost as dear as sister or 
brother to me. I love them so, as I have no brothers or 
sisters. Your constant admirer and reader, 

Daisy D. B . 

Wood Island, Alaska. 

My dear St. Nicholas : Although we have taken 
you for four years, I have never written to you before. 
When we took you before we used to live at a place 
called St. Michael's, much farther north and much colder 
than in Wood Island. 

Years ago St. Michael's used to be a Russian fort. 
There were Russian troops there, and the fort had a 
square building like a tower at each corner. 

Once fhe Russians had a fight with the natives, and 
you can find old arrow- and spear-heads anywhere around 
the fort. 

The one guard-house which is standing is full of shot 
and bullets. 

We have lived in Alaska nearly all our lives. 

Your sincere friend and reader, Mary M. G . 

Warsaw, Richmond Co., Va. 
Dearest St. Nicholas : I have been taking you for 
four or five years ; you came to us with the snow one 
Christmas morning. There are six of us in the family, 
four boys and two girls. We live on a large farm of 
4000 acres on the Rappahannock River near a pretty 
little village named Warsaw. Our house is an old co- 
lonial one of much beauty, I think, with lovely grounds. 
The house is over one hundred and sixty-two years old, 
and has come down directly from old Landon Carter, 
one of King Carter's sons, for whom the house was 
built. We have great, big rooms and high pitched walls 
with tremendous halls. In the hall hangs a large por- 
trait of King Carter, and in the dining-room one of Lan- 
don Carter. We have eight other portraits in our hall. 
We have jolly times dancing in the summer ; the hall is 
just fine for it. I am very fond of dancing. I like all 
your stories. We have " Hans Brinker," " Sarah Crewe," 
and several of your stories in book form, and I think they 
are all jolly. Why, brother and I have to take turns 
which shall have St. Nicholas first, or there will be 
a fuss ! My little sister just pores over you. She is a 
great little reader, and reads all the time. We have 
loads of fun going bathing, crabbing, fishing, and on big 
sails. We have lots of fruit in summer, and we drive a 
lot, and I ride horseback whenever I like; but I am 
sorry to say I am not very fond of it. My brother has 



a riding-horse. We have a cunning little pony, too, that 
we drive and ride whenever we wish. Good-by, dear 
St. Nicholas, hoping you may always prosper. 
Your loving and admiring reader, 

Carolyne R. W . 

Seattle, Wash. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I wish I could describe our 
beautiful Mt. Rainier to the many readers of your maga- 
zine who have never seen it. It lies about ninety-five 
miles from the city of Seattle. 

Although I have lived in sight of Mt. Rainier for four 
years, I have never seen it look twice the same. 

This is the Indian legend of Mt. Rainier: 

Long, long ago there were twin mountains dwelling 
side by side. But they quarreled and had a dreadful 
battle. At the end of the conflict a mighty convulsion 
threw the mighty brothers together, and formed the beau- 
tiful Mt. Rainier, which lies peacefully looking down 
upon our "Queen City of Puget Sound." 

A small piece of one of the mountains was left by the 
side of Mt. Rainier, which is known as Mt. Tacoma. 

The mountain is an extinct volcano, and I should feel 
sorry to have its loveliness spoiled by fire and lava; so 
I do hope that the demon who sleeps beneath Rainier's 
peaceful crest will never awake to violence. 

From one of Seatlle's Girls. 

Oberlin, Ohio. 

Dear St. Nicholas: Oberlin is a college town in the 
northern part of Ohio, sixteen miles south of Lake Erie. 
It is a very pleasant place, the streets being lined with 
elm, oak, and maple trees, and having large green lawns. 
There are a great many wheels in town ; 'most everybody 
has one ; in term lime there are from five hundred to six 

I have one, and enjoy riding to the neighboring towns 
not far from here. 

Along the roads there are small paths about a foot in 
width, covered with cinders, which make a very nice cycle 
pith as there is no dust. 

Last summer I went to Washington, D. C, and after 
seeing the capitol, museum, art gallery, and zoo, we went 
to Mount Vernon, George Washington's old home. It 
is situated on the Potomac River in a very large grove. 
The house is painted white and is two stories high ; there 
are about twelve rooms in it, and they are furnished in old- 
fashioned furniture which is very curious. He and his 
wife are buried in a large brick vault, and the key was 
thrown in the river as he wished. An old negro guards 
the vault. I must close now. 

From your constant reader, D. H. P . 

Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken your magazine 
ever since I was four years old, and as I am a little invalid 
boy, you can see what pleasure you have afforded me. 

I have just come from the Black Hills of Dakota, near 
an Indian reservation, and have seen several of the chiefs 
we read of so often in the papers. They were not nearly 
so alarming to look at as I had imagined. In fact I be- 
came fast friends with one of them, who gave me many 
curious Indian trophies, among them a pipe which he said 

Sitting Bull had once smoked at a council of the Sioux 

Good-by, dear St. Nicholas, with lots of love from 
your little friend, Waldo T . 

Si.oatsburg, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little boy seven years 
old; but I can't write very well, as I have only been to 
school one winter, so my sister Edith is writing this for 
me. We live in Sloatsburg, and the town is very pretty, 
though it 's very small. It is very near the Ramapo 
River. The railroad track runs very near the road, and 
when I was out driving with my papa last August the 
horse ran away with us. He was frightened at a freight- 
train that was going by, the road was bad, and he went 
so fast he threw us both out, and my papa broke his left 

I have a black dog named "Jumbo." I call him that 
because he is so big. I have taught him how to bring 
back a ball, how to speak, and to find a handkerchief. 
Your loving little reader, Harold J . 

Sea Point, near Cape Town, Solth Africa. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am thirteen years old and live 
in the Cape Peninsula. I get two bound volumes of 
you nearly every year for my birthday. I think you are 
a lovely magazine. I would like to see North America 
very much, as I have read so much about it. 

I have a dear old dog called " Bruce," and two cats, 
"Murray" and "White-nez." Murray is small, black, 
and thin, and White-nez is a tabby. They are both dear 
cats and are very fond of Bruce. Sometimes Murray goes 
up to Bruce and rubs under his nose, and he bites her 
gently. She enjoys it. 

One girl who goes to school here and who has been to 
Scotland, tells me that people have asked her if she was 
not afraid lions would eat her in the night. They seemed 
to think we lived in huts like Kaffirs. 

I know three very nice American girls, Inanda, Elsie, 
and Marjorie. Inanda is called after a mission station 
her grandfather had up in the northeast of Africa some- 

Some girls from Indiana wrote to us at All Saints last 
year. Their letters were very interesting, and each of 
us in my class took a letter and answered it. 

I remain your interested reader, 

Olive G. F. S . 

We thank the young friends whose names follow for 
pleasant letters received from them : Florence F'rancis, 
Dorothy E. and Nathalie A., Nellie P. Q., Suzanne 
Gutherz, Bessie B., Mary and Elizabeth T., Solange N. 
Jungerich, Helen May Kirkman, Helen Salisbury, Wil- 
fred S., Mary E. Benson, Maggie Hudson, Daisy D. 
Batre, Alden and Camilla, Ethel McGinnis, Nellie C. W., 
F. T. P., Helen Leslie P., Marjorie Grant Cook, W. D. 
C, Leslie Rand, Mary R. Bucknell, Augusta E. Murray, 
Eleanor Wallace, Gladys Salis-Schwabe, "Dee" and 
"Jay," Marion L. D., Mamie Irwin McDearmon, St. 
John Whitney, Ethel G, Elsie F. and Marjorie P., E. 
L. R., Catherine L. J., Gertrude Kellogg, S. Robbins B., 
Edith Mac, Florence C. Muller and Florence C. White, 
Olive Scanlen, Helen Louise Morris, Blanche G. S., Al- 
bert Willard Chester, Jennet D. B., and Marguerite 

> rt-O A (SIXXft t?l£XI"'' AXXA /£&XXj@\ f'iXXMi, l"iX\£s '-"iXXJN /LOA 


A Poetical Picnic, i. The Cry of the Children. 2. In the 
Woods. 3. Dora. 4. Maud. 5. Ruth. 6. Genevieve. 7. Bertha 
in the Lane. 8. Evelyn Hope. 9. The Miller's Daughter. 10. 
We are Seven. 11. The Children's Hour. 12. The Brook. 13. 
The Death uf the Flowers. 14. The Spanish Gypsy. 15. A Bare- 
foot Boy. 16. Tam o' Shanter. 17. The Vagabonds. 18. A 
Maiden with a Milking Pail. 19. Driving Home the Cows. 20. 
Divided. 21. A Summer Storm. 22. Resignation. 23. March. 
24. The Excursion. 

Riddle. Aspirate, sptrate, pirate, irate, rate, Ate. 

Mythological Cube. From 1 to 2, Leprea; 1 to 3, Latona; 
2 to 4, Apollo; 3 to 4, Alecto; 5 to 6, Aurora; 5 to 7, Abaris; 6 to 
8, arenas; 7 to 8, sirens; 1 to 5, Luna; 2 to 6, Asia; 4 to 8, oats; 3 
to 7, Acis. 

Illustrated Final Acrostic. Penn. Crosswords: 1, Wasp. 
2. Hare. 3. Scorpion. 4. Pelican. 

Word-square, i. Satin 
Charade. Goldsmith. 
A Handful of Peas. 

4. P-earl. 5 

P-russia. 6. P-lover 

P-robe. 10. 

P-arson. 11. P-alter. 

14. P-astern. 


Across: 1. Shame, 2 

5. Sugar. 

I. 1. Tot. 2. Tiara. 

II. 1. Map. 

2. Manor. 3. Anile. 

2. Arena. 3. Tenet. 4. Inert. 5. 

P-anlher. 2. P-article. 3. P-ahns. 
P-ear. 8. P-artisan. 9. 
P-arable. 13. P-arched. 



Oasis. 4. 

Poled. 5. 

Ram. 2. Rapid. 3. Apple. 4. Milan. 5. Den. 

An Oblique Rectangle, i. N. 2. Bog. 3. Nomad. 
mut. 5. Ducat. 6. Tabor. 7. Token. 8. Rebel. 9. 
10. Legal. 11. Latin. 12. Libel. 13. Net. 14. L. 
Progressive Numerical Enigma. Parenthesis. 

Epics. 4. Strap. 
. Trips. 

Red. III. 1. 

4. Ga- 

To our Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and should 
be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from G. B. Dyer — " Jersey Quar- 
tette " — Josephine Sherwood — Helen C Bennett — Paul Reese — Arthur Gride — Nip and Tuck — Helen Koerper — "Alexine" — 
Helen C McCleary — Clive — George Bancroft Fernald — Emily B. Dunning — " Crawford Trio " — Marjory Gane — " Bessie Chandler " 

— L. O. E. — Charles Dwight Reid — " Edgewater Two" — Effie K. Talboys — "Four Weeks of Kane" — Jack and George A. — 
Blanche and Fred — "Sand Crabs" — "Count Ersign D." — Clara A. Anthony — Marian E. Hamilton — "The Butterflies" — Flor- 
ence and Flossie — G. A. H. — Ida Carleton Thallon — "Dee and Co. " — E. G. L. — "Trenton Trio" — Sigourney Fay Nininger — No 
name, Kansas City, Mo. — Addison Neil Clark — Jo and I — " Chiddingstone" — Donald L. and Isabel H. Noble — Kate S. Doty — " Two 
Little Brothers" — Mary Lester and Harry — " Tod and Yam" —Unsigned. 

Answers to Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 15th, from Helen M. Kirkman, 1 — Helen L. 
Soper, 1 — Henry Lincoln, 2 — No name, 1 — Florence Harris, 1 — J. O'Donohoe R., 3 — Elsie Tibbetts, 1 — Betty and Etta, 2 — Millie 
Campau, 2 — M. Laughlin, 1 — D. D. V. S. Stuart, 1 — Mary H. Ricketts, 2 — Edythe M. St. Clayre, 4 — R. M. Plummer, 1 — " Smart, 
Girl." 10 — "The Dr.'s Daughters," 8 — Bertha A. Nesmith, 1 — Sarah Clark, 1 — Alice C. Baals, 2 — Wm. Parker Bonbright, 2 — 
Willie K, 1 — " Kearsarge," 3 — Henry H. Miller, 2 — "Duck," 6 — G. A. Hallock, 2 — Albert Smith Faught. 7 — Herbie J. Rose, 2 

— Louise C. Brigden, 1 — Marie L. Abbott, 2 — Leila C, 1 — Gertrude Lucerne, 2 — " Knott Innit," 10 — Jack Miller, 2 — J. E. Lehman, 2 

— Mary Duther, 1 — Page Powell, 1 — Eleanor H. Dean, 1 — Theo. G. Sisson, 2 — Emma Giles, 1 — Ralph W. Kiefer, 2 — Mary K. Raise, 
1 — K. B. S., 7 — " Goyeneche," 1 — C. F. Barrows, 3 — Frederica Yeager, 4 — Marie Pearce, 2 — Gertrude S. Kearny, 2 — Bessie Burr, 
1 — " Jimmie Semicircle," 5 — K. T. Comstock, 10 — Ethelberta, 10 — Chas. J. M., 2 — Clarette, 2 — "Camp Lake," 9 — Adele T. L. 
1 — Frankly n Farnsworth, 10 — " Rose Red," 2 — " Two Romans," 10 — Mildred Guild, 8 — Leander G. Bowers and Marguerite Sturdy, 
10 — Laura M. Zinser, 8 — No name, Cleveland, 9 — Saml. G. Friedman, 1 — Mary Gabrielle C, 6— Charles Travis, 6 — W. Y. Webbe, 
8— E. and B., 9 — K. D. Parmly, 8— "Merry and Co.." 10 — Adelaide M. Gaither, 3 — M. J. Philbin, 7 — R. S. B. and A. N. I., 8 — 
Ethel Wright, 1 — K. O. E. G. R. J., 2. ' 


1. In diamond. 2. An epic poem which celebrates 
the exploits of a Spanish hero. 3. A feminine name. 
4. A kind of puzzle. 5. To perish in water. 6. A femi- 
nine name. 7. In diamond. horton c. force. 


My primals spell the name of one of the United States ; 
and my finals, the name of its capital. 

Cross-words : 1. Fretful. 2. One of the letters of 
the Greek aiphabet. 3. Pertaining to a lyre or harp. 
4. To bury. 5. The goddess of flowers. 6. Hatred. 
7. To elevate. 8. A month of the Jewish year. 9. In- 
active. 10. A prefix signifying English. L. M. z. 


I am old and cold, I am stern and gray, 

But I 'm coining money, day by clay. 

I hoard and hoard ; though much I give, 

I shall make money while I live. 

And when I die, as die I must, 

My brothers will keep my wealth, I trust. 

In kitchen-gardens oft I stay; 

Sometimes to the fields I stray away ; 

I hide by the hedge or the fence-rail low, 

Or up the hillside creeping go. 

Though all must me at their board receive, 

Folks love me best just when I leave. 

No student, but sharp enough I am 

To be wrapped up in Bacon, and pore over Lamb. 

And my fiery spirit — like Truth — 't is plain, 

Though "crushed to earth will rise again." 


All of the words described contain the same num- 
ber of letters. When these are rightly guessed and 
placed one below another, in the order here given, the 
zigzag, beginning at the upper left-hand letter, will spell a 
name popularly given to an important city of the United 

CROSS-WORDS: I. A fresh-water fish. 2. Close at 
hand. 3. A very small quantity or degree. 4. A low 
cart used for heavy burdens. 5- Destiny. 6. At a dis- 
tance. 7. A famous city of ancient times. 8. Not dense 
or thick. 9. Mimics. 10. In a smaller or lower degree. 
II. To be foolishly fond. 12. The god of love. 13. A 
carpenter's tool used for chipping or slicing wood. 14. 
A measure of distance. 15. A ceremony. 16. The god 
of war. L. M. z. 




When the words have been rightly guessed, and 
written one below the other, the diagonal (beginning at 
the upper left-hand letter, and ending with the lower 
right-hand letter) will spell the name of a famous en- 

Cross-words: i. Highly pleasing to the taste. 2. 
Misleading. 3. Agreeable to the ear. 4. A chronom- 
eter. 5. Indispensable. 6. Abundance. 7. Things 
that are unusual or unaccountable. 8. In the middle of 
a ship. 9. A state of exhaustion. w. s. p. 

inue or company of attendants. My 62-13-53-60-47 is 
to pain acutely. My 1-28-38-51-32 is in advance. My 
44-34-8-22-56 is lacking strength. My 33-17-48-12- 
39-42 are shallow places. My 1 4- 1 8-2-4-5 5 -6 1 is frank. 
My 24-15-10-52-58-30 is a famous mountain peak in 
California. My 20-7-40-37-27-5-49 is to contend. 



Example: Remove a blood-vessel from a layer of 
rock, and leave a farm implement. Answer, Rake-vein. 
The part to be removed is sometimes at the beginning, 
sometimes in the middle or at the end, of a word. 

1. Remove a limb from lawfully, and leave a supporter. 

2. Remove a bone from a Roman magistrate, and leave 
a melody. 

3. Remove a large joint from wooing in love, and leave 

4. Remove a limb from a famous fleet, and leave a 
feminine name. 

5. Remove a joint from a devotional posture, and 
leave a large fish. 

6. Remove an epidermis from warming in the sun, and 
leave a sack. 

7. Remove the organ of hearing from pertaining to 
this world, and leave a pronoun. 

8. Remove the lower part of the face from confirming, 
and leave to adhere closely. 

9. Remove part of the mouth from a geometrical 
name for an oval figure, and leave otherwise. 



When the five objects in the above illustration have 
been rightly guessed, and the names (which are of equal 
length) written one below the other, the central letters 
will spell the name of an English general and statesman. 


My hunter is a graceful , 

With ears alert at every ■ , 

And eyes that keenly glance , 

And feet that scarcely touch the , 

O'er lofty mount and lowly , 

And field, he runs with fleetest 

Wherever bird or hare is . 

His worth, untold by pence or , 

If lost to me, how deep the '. 

(The nine omitted words all rhyme.) 

G. L. w. 

I AM composed of sixty-two letters, and form a couplet 
by Cow per. 

My 54-21-9-46 is rapid. My 29-26-41-16 is one who 
entertains. My 43-25-3-35 is a large wading bird. My 
1 1-59-31-19-50 is desires. My 57-36-45-23-6 is a ret- 

I. Upper Diamond : 1. In trade. 2. A beverage. 
3. A European fresh-water fish. 4. Signified. 5. A 
stage-player. 6. A pronoun. 7. In trade. 

II. Left-hand Diamond: i. In trade. 2. Man- 
kind. 3. A fruit. 4. Described. 5. Observed. 6. A 
masculine nickname. J. In trade. 

III. Central Square : 1. Assisted. 2. A feminine 
name. 3. A first appearance before the public. 4. To 
discipline. 5. To be withheld by fear. 

IV. Right-hand Diamond : 1. In trade. 2. A 
small quadruped. 3. To refund. 4. Became gradually 
smaller. 5. Weeds. 6. A word which expresses con- ' 
sent. 7. In trade. 

V. Lower Diamond: i. In trade. 2. A popular 
fancy. 3. A member of a religious order. 4. Infected. 
5. Fixed the time of. 6. A color. 7. In trade. 

R. h., jr. 




Old Song. 


Vol. XXIII. 

JANUARY, 1896. 

No. 3. 


By Annie E. Tynan. 

" Look, mother, look," cried Dorothy Thome, 
" .\t the redbreast robin in yonder tree ! " 
The good dame came to the cabin door. 
"Ay, ay, my child, I see." 

" And thinkst thou not he sings as sweet 
As those in England ? " cried the child. 
The good dame brushed away the tear 
that started as she smiled. 

" Look, mother, look ! Neighbor Rugg goes by, 
And Jonathan Howard, with sacks of 
corn — 
So many men with heavy sacks have hurried 
by this morn." 

The good dame stirred the steaming broth 
With an even sweep of her wooden spoon. 
"Ay, ay, my child; Lord Delaware sets sail 
to-morrow noon." 

There were groups of women along the shore, 

Knitting and watching the busy men. 
The boats rowed laden out to the ships, — 
rowed empty in again. 

Good Mistress Thorne, when dinner was done, 
And the pewter dishes back on the shelf, 
Combed Dorothy's locks of shimmering gold, 
and tidied her buxom self. 

" We '11 down to the shore with the rest," 
said she; 
" I '11 knit some rows on thy father's socks, 
And talk with the dames, and thou canst play 
with the children on the rocks." 

Oh, blue were the skies and green the shores! 

And merry the laughter of children that 


As they flung their scraps of bark to the 

waves and watched them whirl away! 

But Dorothy stayed at her mother's side, 

For she saw, at sight of the loading ships, 
How her mother's eyes grew dim with tears 
and a sigh rose up to her lips. 

"Ah, Mistress Thorne," cries Mistress Rugg — 
And a mournful shaking of heads prevails — 
" 'T is a woful wind for the Colony 
that fills his Lordship's sails ! " 

Copyright, 1895, by The Centi'RV Co. All rights reserved. 

i So 



And they talked of how, before he " ■ look, mother, look i • " 

With his three stanch vessels from over Their hearts are fearful of hunger and strife. 

the sea, 
There was dearth of hope and famine of 

bread in Jamestown Colony. 

Why dost thou go away ? " 

He looked on the serious upturned face. 

"I go because I am ill," he said; 

Lord Delaware, on the beach near the boats, " But they need not fear, for General Gates 

Felt a touch on his gold-embroidered coat; 

He turned ; it was a fair-haired child, 

with a kerchief crossed at her throat. 

Why dost thou go ? " said Dorothy Thorne. 
" For the good folk all, they wish thou 
wouldst stay. 

will serve them in my stead.' 

" And wilt thou come back when thou art 

well ? " 
He laid his hand on her golden hair. 
" Ay, child, God willing, I will come back," 

he said with a thoughtful air. 

i8 9 6.] 



"And when I come, I shall bring to thee — " " Thy dog ? thy dog?" Lord Delaware smiled, 

His lips were smiling now as he spoke, " And where shall I find him, my little lass?" 

" Shall it be a gown, as brown as thine eves, " We left him at the King's Crown Inn, in care 

or a beautiful scarlet cloak ? " of Mistress Cass." 

The brown eyes shone. " My lord," she cried, " Thy father is Roger Thorne, is he not ? 

'• Oh, wouldst thou bring me, when thou And thou com'st from Warwickshire ? " 

com'st back, asked he. 

Not a gown, nor a beautiful scarlet cloak, ''■ Lord Delaware shall do thy will. Thy dog 

but my dog — my Shepherd, 'Jack'?" shall come to thee." 

iMii i 



Prosperity's blessings did not fly 
With the flight of those ships — as they 

sailed away ; 
The Colony's wealth, and peace, and strength 

grew with each passing day. 



The good Lord Delaware never came back ; 
But the very next spring, when the shores 

were gay 
With bursting buds, an English ship sailed 

into Chesapeake Bay. 

The Goodman Sautern saw it first, 

He sped the news through the quiet town. 
The neighbors left their half-felled trees, 
or flung their shovels down. 

Wife ! wife ! an English ship comes in ! " 
They 'd shout as they passed the cabin door, 
And dames forgot their 
half-baked loaves as 

they hurried down 
to the shore. 

"'jack! jack!' she cries, a splash! a cheer! 



They thronged the rocks, those hardy men " Jack ! Jack ! " she cries. A splash ! A cheer 

And brave Virginia dames ; 
They shouted "Welcome to our shores ! " and 
" Long live good King James ! " 

And Dorothy Thome ? Yes, she was there. 

On her father's shoulder she sat like a queen, 

Her brown eyes bright, and her sunny hair 

blown out in a golden sheen. 

From those on the shore and those in the 
He swims ! — he clambers up the rocks ! 
Another cheer from a hundred throats. 

I- / 


Hark ! What is that ? the bark of a dog ? 
Look ! What is that, like a tassel of corn, 
That waves at the prow of the foremost boat ? 
Look, little Dorothy Thome ! 

'T was thus Jack came to the Colony, 

And from that moment, everywhere 
That the colonists saw his shaggy coat, 
They looked for the child with the golden hair. 



By W. A. Wilson. 

One windy night toward the end of January, 
Fred was awakened by the slamming of the 
folding windows in a room down-stairs. 

He lay, reluctant to rise, for some moments, 
but on the noise being repeated, sprang out of 
bed, and put on his slippers. 

Passing the staircase window like a ghost, 
he reached the hall, and moved toward the 
parlor door. The shutters were closed, and 
the room was dark. After feeling about and 
upsetting a vase of water filled with flowers, 
and a few glasses and ornaments on a table, he 
succeeded in finding the matches and struck 
a light. 

He opened the door of the room whence 
the noise was coming ; but, as he did so, 
the window was blown wide open, his lamp 
was extinguished, and he found himself in an 
almost forgotten presence. 

Majestic and calm, within a few paces of 
him, stood the tree, in the great flood of moon- 
light which streamed in past the fluttering cur- 

Fifteen seconds later, Fred had shuffled up 
the staircase, and was coiled up in his bed 

He told Cecie in the morning. 

The tree's old friends had missed it, she said, 
and had come to pay it a visit to see how it was 
getting on. 

" What friends ? " asked Frederick-of-the- 

" The Moonlight and the Wind," said Cecie. 

" Oh," said Fred. 

That this little episode impressed Cecie was 
evident; but it was not until the following Sat- 
urday that she said anything of an idea which 
it seemed to have suggested to her. It was the 
first time since New Year's that Fred had found 
time to run out beyond the city, which he was 
in the habit of doing as often as he could, to 
spend a few hours in the pure, fresh air of his 

favorite woods. Agnes usually accompanied 
him, and, for the first time, they yielded to 
Cecie's entreaties, and took her also with 

These snatches of health-giving air, these 
walks, short though they were, on the country 
soil, were everything to Fred. Two hours of 
freedom amongst the trees, in the silence of the 
forest, he used to say, were enough to clear a 
week's cobwebs from the brain. They did 
more for him that day — they solved the prob- 
lem of the tree. 

To reach their favorite walk it was necessary 
to go by steamboat to a station down the river, 
and thence climb a short, steep hill to a wood 
which stretched for miles beyond. It was apt 
to be dusty and less attractive in the summer 
months, but in late autumn and winter and 
early spring, when deserted by the picnicking 
crowd, it was a beautiful and peaceful spot. 
The favorite corner of Fred's was a small pond 
which lay in the midst of a thicket of young 
elms and oaks. When Cecie saw this for the 
first time she remained very quiet for some mo- 
ments. Two fir-trees growing together at a 
comer of the pond seemed to have attracted 
her attention. 

" What are you thinking about? " asked her 

" I am thinking — why not send our tree out 
here and iet it grow beside the others ? Look 
at these two poor trees standing over there, all 
alone. It would be happier too, I think. It 
would like to be beside them." 

" Do you think it would ? " asked Fred, mus- 

" I am sure of it ! " cried Cecie, excitedly. 
" It would get the dew, and the wind, and the 
rain, and the sun, and could grow and grow 
all the time. I am afraid it won't grow much 
with us." 

An hour afterward they stood on the pier 


I8 5 

watching their steamboat coming 
up the river. 

" Now," said Fred, who seemed 
to be in unusually good spirits, 
" we have only to ask Robin if 
he is willing." 

" Willing — what to do ? " 

" To let us send his present 
into the woods to live, instead of 
keeping it ourselves," said Fred, quite gravely. 

" Oh, he will," said Cecie, confidently. " I 
will go and ask him. Nurse can take me — 
to-morrow morning — before breakfast-time." 

" I think I would n't go quite so soon," said 
her father, with an amused look. " Robin 
does n't — I mean Robin is very busy in the 
early mornings." 


The snow and ice had disappeared from the 
streets and avenues, and in the mild skies of the 
early days of February there was a glad respite 
from the cold, and a welcome promise of the 
coming spring. 

The sun no longer hid behind banks of fog ; 
but rose from day to day with clear and lus- 
trous face. The mists had gathered up their 




trains and fled, and the skies were filled with 
armies of fleecy clouds. The grass in the parks 
seemed already to feel the breath of April, the 
crocuses peeped out from their beds of earth 
and hurried on their yellow garments, while the 
trees donned a livery of tiny buds and stood in 
sleepy readiness for the festival. The busy 
steamers plying up and down the river became 
suddenly gay with color; for the passengers no 
longer huddled together in heated cabins, but 
crowded out upon the deck that they might 
breathe the fresh air. 

Beyond the city, nature seemed less eager to 
listen to fair promises, for her landscapes lay 
still as they had been left by the marauding 
winds of winter. The country roads were bleak 
and bare, the shrubs and hedges stripped of 
their leaves and left stifled with snow and mud, 
and the deserted footpaths wandered listlessly 
through the maze of trunks and branches and 
lawless thorns. Yet when the sun shone into 
the thickets and down upon the inert ground, 
everything seemed to quicken : the ice re- 
treated into the shady corners of the ponds, 
the drowsy trees lazily stretched themselves, 
and here and there in the recesses a bird took 
courage and began piping feeble snatches of 
almost forgotten song. 

On the afternoon of one of these early Feb- 
ruary days the deserted woods seemed quieter 
even than they had been in the dead of win- 
ter. There was not a breath of wind to ruffle 
the surface of the pond beside which a young 
fir-tree had recently been planted. Far in the 
distance a dog's bark or a cockcrow might be 
heard ; still farther, perhaps, a long, faint whistle 
from a train winding along the river's bank ; or, 
nearer at hand, the rustle of a falling leaf: but 
these only served to make the silence more 

Close beside two other firs, standing in 
friendly reserve somewhat aloof from the at- 
tendant herd of young oaks and elms, the new 
member of the mute community depended its 
lustrous green reflection into the somber mirror 
at its feet. Behind it rose the slender stems of 
two silver birches. In a corner near at hand 
a marsh-willow had burst into a mist of downy 
buds; and, still nearer, an old oak, as if to show 
an example to the younger members of its 

family, who still clung to their tattered cover- 
ing of leaves, stretched its bare and rugged 
limbs far up above its neighbors, and stood, 
stern and weather-beaten, on its carpet of grass 
and fallen acorns. 

The mossy footpath which skirted the pond 
led to a clearing in the wood where it joined 
a broader way. This crossed a more open 
tract of ground covered with bushes and 
clogged with heather and dark-leaved bram- 
bles, until at one corner the country road ap- 
peared from behind a clump of trees. Be- 
tween this corner and the point, some distance 
further on, where the road descended the 
wooded hill leading to the river, a gardener's 
cottage was situated. 

At the gate of this cottage, toward sunset on 
a February afternoon, three figures were stand- 
ing. The one, in colored shirt-sleeves and 
ample corduroys, wore a gardener's blue apron ; 
the others were clad in the more conventional 
clothing of the city. 

One of them wore a dark hat and cloak, and 
beside him stood a little figure dressed in a 
quaint gown of blue trimmed with sable. From 
beneath the felt and feathers of her hat one of 
her blonde curls escaped and lay gracefully 
upon her shoulder. 

A fourth figure, that of the gardener's wife, 
a motherly-looking woman in a faded cotton 
dress, presently disappeared into a small green- 
house near the cottage, and closed the door 
behind her. 

" Well," said the owner of the blue apron, in 
an affable tone, to his visitors, when at length 
they prepared to leave, " I suppose Missy will 
be satisfied now." 

" I think so," said the figure in the cloak, 
looking down to " Missy," who smiled a shy 
assent. " / certainly am very well satisfied," 
he added, with a quizzical look, while button- 
ing his cloak. 

When they set out, a few minutes later, the 
sun was glittering behind the trees, the earth 
was strong and deep in color, and the sky was 
filled with light. 

They had reached the point where the road 
dipped suddenly in the direction of the steamer 
pier, when the door of the greenhouse opened, 
and the woman with the faded gown reappeared, 



I8 7 

gone, she threw her scissors down upon 
a table, ran past her husband, who 
was lingering at the gate, and 
hastened after them along the 
They turned on hearing 
her, and when she reach- 
ed them she bent down, 
and, with a mixture of 
hesitancy and tender- 
ness, placed the flow- 
ers between two small, 
gloved hands, and re- 

A minute afterward 
she was standing in 


tying up a bouquet as she walked slowly into the middle of the empty road, bareheaded, and 

the garden. with cheeks hot and flushed, watching a waving 

She did not look up at first, but when cloak and a little dot of blue gradually dis- 

she did so and found that the strangers had appearing down the avenue. 


By Robert Louis Stevenson. 


[When Arick left us and went back to the 
German company, he had grown so fat and 
strong and intelligent that they deemed he was 
made for better things than cotton-picking or 
plantation work, and handed him over to their 
surveyor, who needed a man to help him. I 
used often to meet him after this, tripping at 
his master's heels with the theodolite, or scam- 
pering about with tapes and chains like a kitten 
with a spool of thread. He did not look then 
as though he was destined to die of a broken 
heart, though that was his end not so many 
months afterward. The plantation manager 
told me that Arick and a New Ireland boy 
went crazy with homesickness, and died in 
the hospital together. — L. O.] 


Vailima, November 2, 1892. 
My dear Austin : First and foremost I think 
you will be sorry to hear that our poor friend 
Arick has gone back to the German Firm. He 
had not been working very well and we had 
talked of sending him off before ; but remem- 
bering how thin he was when he came here, 
and seeing what fat little legs and what a com- 
fortable little stomach he had laid on in the 
meanwhile, we found we had not the heart. 
The other day, however, he set up chat to 
Henry, the Samoan overseer, asking him who 
he was and where he came from, and refusing 
to obey his orders. I was in bed in the work- 
man's house, having a fever. Uncle Lloyd 
came over to me, told me of it, and I had 
Arick sent up. I told him I would give him 
another chance. He was taken out and asked 
to apologize to Henry, but he would do no 
such thing. He preferred to go back to the 
German Firm. So we hired a couple of Sa- 

moans who were up here on a visit to the boys 
and packed him off in their charge to the Firm, 
where he arrived safely, and a receipt was given 
for him like a parcel. 

Sunday last the "Alameda" returned. Your 
mother was off bright and early with Palema, 
for it is a very curious thing, but is certainly the 
case, that she was very impatient to get news 
of a young person by the name of Austin. 
Mr. Gurr lent a horse for the Captain — it was 
a pretty big horse, but our handsome Captain, as 
you know, is a very big Captain indeed. Now, 
do you remember Misi Folo — a tall, thin 
Hovea boy that came shortly before you left ? 
He had been riding up this same horse of 
Gurr's just the clay before, and the horse threw 
him off at Motootua corner and cut his hip. 
So Misi Folo called out to the Captain as he 
rode by that that was a very bad horse, that it 
ran away and threw people off, and that he had 
best be careful ; and the funny thing is, that 
the Captain did not like it at all. The foal 
might as well have tried to run away with Vai- 
lima as that horse with Captain Morse, which 
is poetry, as you see, into the bargain ; but the 
Captain was not at all in that way of thinking, 
and was never really happy until he had got 
his foot on ground again. It was just then 
that the horse began to be happy too, so they 
parted in one mind. But the horse is still won- 
dering what kind of piece of artillery he had 
brought up to Vailima last Sunday morning. 
So far it was all right. The Captain was got 
safe off the wicked horse, but how was he to 
get back again to Apia and the Alameda ? 

Happy thought — there was Donald, the big 
pack-horse ! The last time Donald was ridden 
he had upon him a hairpin and a pea — by 
which I mean (once again to drop into poetry) 
you and me. Now he was to have a rider 




more suited to his size. He was brought up 
to the door — he looked a mountain. A step- 
ladder was put 
j£y alongside of him. 

The Captain ap- 
proached the 

t?iUo <"• 

&~*l). ftl/V**Y^ 


step-ladder, and he looked an Alp. I was n't 
as much afraid for the horse as I was for the 
step-ladder, but it bore the strain, and with a 
kind of sickening smash that you might have 
heard at Monterey, the Captain descended to 
the saddle. Now don't think that I am exag- 
gerating, but at the moment when that enormous 
Captain settled down upon Donald, the horse's 
hind legs gave visibly under the strain. What 
the couple looked like, one on top of t' other, no 
words can tell you, and your mother must here 
draw a picture. 

[" Bullamacow," which occurs in the follow- 
ing letter, is a word that always amuses the 
visitor to Samoa. When the first pair of cattle 
was brought to the islands, and the natives 
asked the missionaries what they must call 
these strange creatures, they were told that 
the English name was " a bull and a cow." 
But the Samoans thought that " a bull and 
a cow " was the name of each of the animals, 
and they soon corrupted the English words 
into "bullamacow," which has remained the 
name for beef or cattle ever since. 

To the Black Boys, of course, Samoan is a 
foreign language ; and as their own dialects are 

so different that sometimes six men from the 
same island cannot understand one another, 
they are driven to use a queer sort of Eng- 
lish called " Beach- de- Mar." This Beach- 
de-Mar is the language of trade and barter 
throughout the western islands, and every white 
man who wishes to speak with the 
black people must learn it. The Ger- 
mans in Samoa, the French in New 
Caledonia and the New Hebrides, 
have to use it on their plantations, 
and sometimes it is amusing to meet 
a man of one of these nationalities 
who can speak Beach-de-Mar per- 
fectly, and yet does not know real 
English at all. " White fellow he 
come cocoanut belong him no grass 
hes top " is how a Black Boy says, 
" A baldheaded white man is ap- 
proaching." " This white fellow belong me " 
is what he calls his master. — L. O.] 


Vailima, November 15, 1892. 

My dear Austin : The new house is begun. 
It stands out nearly half way over towards Pine- 
apple Cottage — the lower floor is laid and the 
uprights of the wall are set up ; so that the big 
lower room wants nothing but a roof over its 
head. When it rains (as it does mostly all the 
time) you never saw anything look so sorry for 
itself as that room left outside. Beyond the 
house there is a work-shed roofed with sheets of 
iron, and in front, over about half the lawn, the 
lumber for the house lies piled. It is about the 
bringing up of this lumber that I want to tell you. 

For about a fortnight there were at work 
upon the job two German overseers, about a 
hundred Black Boys, and from twelve to twenty- 
four draught-oxen. It rained about half the 
time, and the road was like lather for shaving. 
The Black Boys seemed to have had a new 
rig-out. They had almost all shirts of scarlet 
flannel, and lavalavas, the Samoan kilt, either 
of scarlet or light blue. As the day got warm 
they took off the shirts ; and it was a very 
curious thing, as you went down to Apia on 
a bright day, to come upon one tree after 
another in the empty forest with these shirts 
stuck among the branches like vermilion birds. 


I 9 I 

I observed that many of the boys had a very 
queer substitute for a pocket. This was nothing 
more than a string which some of them tied 
about their upper arms and some about their 
necks, and in which they stuck their clay pipes ; 
and as 1 don't suppose they had anything else 
to carry, it did very well. Some had feathers 
in their hair, and some long stalks of grass 
through the holes in their noses. I suppose 
this was intended to make them look pretty, 
poor dears ; but you know what a Black Boy 
looks like, and these Black Boys, for all their 
blue, and their scarlet, and their grass, looked 
just as shabby and small, and sad, and sorry 
for themselves, and like sick monkeys as any of 
the rest. 

As you went down the road you came 

upon them first working in squads of two. 

Each squad shouldered a couple of planks and 

carried them up about two hundred feet, gave 

them to two others, 

and walked back 

empty-handed to the 

places they had start- 


ed from. It 

was n't very 

hard work, 

and they did n't go 

about it at all lively ; 


but of course, when it rained, and the mud 
was deep, the poor fellows were unhappy 
enough. This was in the upper part about 
Trood's. Below, all the way down to Tanu- 
gamanono, you met the bullock-carts coining 
and going, each with ten or twenty men to 
attend upon it, and often enough with one 
of the overseers near. Quite a far way off 
through the forest you could hear the noise 
of one of these carts approaching. The road 
was like a bog, and though a good deal 
wider than it was when you knew it, so nar- 
row that the bullocks reached quite across it 
with the span of their big horns. To pass by, 
it was necessary to get into the Bush on one 
side or the other. The bullocks seemed to take 
no interest in their business ; they looked angry 
and stupid, and sullen beyond belief; and when 
it came to a heavy bit of the road, as often as 
not they would stop. 

As long as they were going, the Black Boys 
walked in the margin of the Bush on each side, 
pushing the cart-wheels with hands and shoul- 
ders, and raising the most extraordinary outcry. 
It was strangely like some very big kind of 
bird. Perhaps the great flying creatures that 




lived upon the earth long before man came, 
if we could have come near one of their meet- 
ing-places, would have given us just such a 

When one of the bullamacows stopped alto- 
gether the fun was highest. The bullamacow 
stood on the road, his head fixed fast in the 
yoke, chewing a little, breathing very hard, and 
showing in his red eye that if he could get rid 
of the yoke he would show them what a circus 

While this was going on, I had to go down 
to Apia five or six different times, and each time 
there were a hundred Black Boys to say " Good 
morning " to. This was rather a tedious busi- 
ness ; and, as very few of them answered at all, 
and those who did, only with a grunt like a 
pig's, it was several times in my mind to give 
up this piece of politeness. The last time I 
went down, I was almost decided ; but when I 
came to the first pair of Black Boys and saw 

was. All the Black Boys tailed on to the wheels 
and the back of the cart, stood there getting 
their spirits up, and then of a sudden set to 
shooing and singing out. It was these outbursts 
of shrill cries that it was so curious to hear in 
the distance. One such stuck cart I came up 
to and asked what was the worry. " Old fool 
bullamacow stop same place," was the reply. 
I never saw any of the overseers near any of the 
stuck carts ; you were a very much better over- 
seer than either of these. 

them looking so comic and so melancholy, I 
began the business over again. This time I 
thought more of them seemed to answer, and 
when I got down to the tail-end where the carts 
were running, I received a very pleasant sur- 
prise, for one of the boys, who was pushing at 
the back of a cart, lifted up his head, and called 
out to me in wonderfully good English, " You 
good man — always say 'good morning.'" It 
was sad to think that these poor creatures should 
think so much of so small a piece of civility, 



and strange that (thinking so) they should be 
so dull as not to return it. Uncle Louis. 

[In the letters that were sent to Austin Strong 
you will be surprised to see his name change 
from Austin to Hoskyns, and from Hopkins 
to Hutchinson. It was the penalty Master 
Austin had to pay for being the particular and 
bosom friend of each of the one hundred and 
eighty blue-jackets that made up the crew of 
the British man-of-war " Curacoa"; for, whether 
it was due to some bitter memories of the Rev- 
olutionary war, or to some rankling reminis- 
cences of 1812, that even friendship could not 
altogether stifle (for Austin was a true Amer- 
ican boy), they annoyed him by giving him, 
each one of them, a separate name. — L. O.] 


June 18, 1893. 

Respected Hopkins : This is to inform you 
that the Jersey cow had an elegant little cow- 
calf Sunday last. There was a great deal of 
rejoicing, of course ; but I don't know whether 
or not you remember the Jersey cow. What- 
ever else she is, the Jersey cow is not good-na- 
tured, and Dines, who was up here on some 
other business, went down to the paddock to 
get a hood and to milk her. The hood is a 
little wooden board with two holes in it, by 
which it is hung from her horns. I don't know 
how he got it on, and I don't believe he does. 
Anyway, in the middle of the operation, in 
came Bull Bazett, with his head down, and 
roaring like the last trumpet. Dines and all 
his merry men hid behind trees in the paddock, 
and skipped. Dines then got upon a horse, 
plied his spurs, and cleared for Apia. The 
next time he is asked to meddle with our cows, 
he will probably want to know the reason why. 
Meanwhile, there was the cow, with the board 
over her eyes, left tied by a pretty long rope to 
a small tree in the paddock, and who was to 
milk her ? She roared, — I was going to say 
like a bull, but it was Bazett who did that, 
walking up and down, switching his tail, and 
the noise of the pair of them was perfectly 

Palema went up to the Bush to call Lloyd ; 
and Lloyd came down in one of his know-all- 
Vol. XXIII.— 25. 


about-it moods. " It was perfectly simple," 
he said. " The cow was hooded ; anybody 
could milk her. All you had to do was to 
draw her up to the tree, and get a hitch about 
it." So he untied the cow and drew her up 
close to the tree, and got a hitch about it right 
enough. And then the cow brought her intel- 
lect to bear on the subject, and proceeded to 
walk round the tree to get the hitch off. 

Now, this is geometry, which you '11 have to 
learn some day. The tree is the center of two 
circles. The cow had a " radius " of about two 
feet, and went leisurely round a small circle; 
the man had a "radius " of 
about thirty feet, and either 
he must let the cow get the 
hitch unwound, or else he 
must take up his two feet 
to about the height of his 


• r 

' /y\»6*-7 U*u(^ 

-—-» ' -■ >■ * 

eyes, and race round a big circle. This was 
racing and chasing. 

The cow walked quietly round and round the 
tree to unwind herself; and first Lloyd and 
then Palema, and then Lloyd again, scampered 
round the big circle, and fell, and got up again, 
and bounded like a deer, to keep her hitched. 

It was funny to see, but we could n't laugh 
with a good heart; for every now and then 
(when the man who was running tumbled 
down) the cow would get a bit ahead; and I 
promise you there was then no sound of any 
laughter, but we rather edged away toward the 
gate, looking to see the crazy beast loose, and 
charging us. To add to her attractions, the 
board had fallen partly off, and only covered 

i 9 4 



one eye, giving her the look of a crazy old 
woman in a Sydney slum. Meanwhile, the 
calf stood looking on, a little perplexed, and 
seemed to be saying : " Well, now, is this life ? 
It does n't seem as if it was all it was cracked 
up to be. And is this my mamma ? What a 
very impulsive lady ! " 

All the time, from the lower paddock, we 
could hear Bazett roaring like the deep seas, 
and if we cast our eye that way, we could 
see him switching his tail, as a very angry 
gentleman may sometimes switch his cane. 
And the Jersey would every now and then put 
up her head, and low like the pu* for dinner. 
And take it all for all in all, it was a very striking 
scene. Poor Uncle Lloyd had plenty of time 
to regret having been in such a hurry ; so had 
poor Palema, who was let into the business, and 
ran until he was nearly dead. Afterward Pa- 
lema went and sat on a gate where your mother 
sketched him, and she is going to send you the 
sketch. And the end of it? Well, we got her tied 
again, I really don't know how; and came 
stringing back to the house with our tails be- 
tween our legs. That night at dinner, the Ta- us tell the boys to be very careful 
"not to frighten the cow." It was too much; 
the cow had frightened us in such fine style 
that we all broke clown and laughed like mad. 

General Hoskyns, there is no further news, 
your excellency, that I am aware of. But it 
may interest you to know that Mr. Christian 
held his 25th birthday yesterday — a quarter of a 
living century old ; think of it, drink of it, inno- 
cent youth! — and asked down Lloyd and Dap- 
lyn to a feast at one o'clock, and Daplyn went 
at seven, and got nothing to eat at all. Whether 
they had anything to drink, I know not — no, 
not I ; but it 's to be hoped so. Also, your 
Uncle Lloyd has stopped smoking, and he 
does n't like it much. Also, that your mother 
is most beautifully gotten up to-day, in a pink 
gown with a topaz stone in front of it; and is 
really looking like an angel, only that she is n't 
like an angel at all — only like your mother 

Also that the Tamaitai has been waxing the 

floor of the big room, so that it shines in the 

* The big conch-shell that was blown at certain hours every day. i A visiting party. 

+ Mrs. R. L. S., as she is called in Samoan, "the lady." 

most ravishing manner; and then we insisted 
on coming in, and she would n't let us, and 
we came anyway, and have made the vilest 
mess of it — but still it shines. 

Also, that I am, Your Excellency's obedient 
servant, Uncle Louis. 

[While Austin was in Vailima many little du- 
ties about the plantation fell to his share, so 
that he was often called the "overseer"; and, 
small as he was, he sometimes took charge of a 
couple of big men, and went into town with the 
pack-horses. It was not all play, either; for he 
had to see that the barrels and boxes did not 
chafe the horses' backs, and that they were not 
allowed to come home too fast up the steep 

There are so many strange names in the fol- 
lowing letters, that the Editor asks me to explain 
who all the Samoans are. Talolo was the Vai- 
lima cook, a fine young chief, whose picture 
is given on page 191. Sina is his wife ; Tauilo, 
his mother; Mitaele and Sosimo, his bro- 
thers. Lafaele, who was married to Faauma, 
was a middle-aged Futuna Islander, and had 
spent many years of his life on a whale-ship 
the captain of which had kidnapped him when 
a boy. Misi Folo was one of the " house- 
maids." Iopu and Tali, man and wife, had 
long been in our service, but had left it after 
they had been married some time; but, accord- 
ing to Samoan ideas, they were none the less 
members of Tusitala's family, because, though 
they were no longer working for him, they still 
owed him allegiance. "Aunt Maggie" is Mr. 
Stevenson's mother. — L. O.] 


My dear Hutchinson : This is not going 
to be much of a letter, so don't expect what 
can't be had. Uncle Lloyd and Palema made 
a malanga| to go over the island to Siumu,§ and 
Talolo was anxious to go also ; but how could 
we get along without him ? Well, Misifolo, 
the Maypole, set off on Saturday, and walked 
all that day down the island to beyond Fa- 
leasiu with a letter for Iopu ; and Iopu and 

§ A Samoan village. 

1896 ; 



Tali and Misifolo rose very early on the Sun- 
day morning, and walked all that day up the 
island, and came by seven at night — all pretty 
tired, and Misifolo most of all — to Tanu- 
gamanono. We at Vailima knew nothing at 
all about the marchings of the Saturday and 
Sunday, but Uncle Lloyd got his boys and 
things together, and we went to bed. 

A little after five in the morning I woke and 
took the lantern, and went out of the front door 
and round the verandas. There was never a 
spark of dawn in the east, only the stars looked 
a little pale; and I expected to find them all 
asleep in the workhouse. But no ! the stove 
was roaring, and Talolo and Fono, who was 
to lead the party, were standing together talk- 
ing by the stove, and one of Fono's young 
men was lying asleep on the sofa in the smok- 
ing-room, wrapped in his lavalava. I had 
my breakfast at half-past five that morning, 
and the bell rang before six, when it was just 
the gray of dawn. But by seven the feast 
was spread — there was lopu coming up, with 
Tali at his heels, and Misipolo bringing up 
the rear — and Talolo could go the malanga. 

Off they set, with two guns and three porters, 
and Fono and Lloyd and Palema, and Talolo 
himself with his best Sunday-go-to-meeting la- 
valava rolled up under his arm, and a very sore 
foot; but much he cared — he was smiling from 
ear to ear, and would have gone to Siumu 
over red-hot coals. Off they set round the 
corner of the cook-house, and into the Bush 
beside the chicken-house, and so good-bye to 

But you should see how lopu has taken pos- 
session ! " Never saw a place in such a state ! " 

is written on his face. " In my time," says he, 
" we did n't let things go ragging along like this, 
and I 'm going to show you fellows." The first 
thing he did was to apply for a bar of soap, 
and then he set to work washing everything 
(that had all been washed last Friday in the 
regular course). Then he had the grass cut 
all round the cook-house, and I tell you but 
he found scraps, and odds and ends, and 
grew more angry and indignant at each fresh 

" If a white chief came up here and smelt this, 
how would you feel ? " he asked your mother. 
"It is enough to breed a sickness!" 

And I dare say you remember this was just 
what your mother had often said to himself; 
and did say the day she went out and cried on 
the kitchen steps in order to make Talolo 
ashamed. But lopu gave it all out as little 
new discoveries of his own. The last thing was 
the cows, and I tell you he was solemn about 
the cows. They were all destroyed, he said, 
nobody knew how to milk except himself — 
where he is about right. Then came dinner 
and a delightful little surprise. Perhaps you re- 
member that long ago I used not to eat mashed 
potatoes, but had always two or three boiled 
in a plate. This has not been done for months, 
because Talolo makes such admirable mashed 
potatoes that I have caved in. But here came 
dinner, mashed potatoes for your mother and 
the Tamaitai, and then boiled potatoes in a 
plate for me ! 

And there is the end of the Tale of the re- 
turn of lopu, up to date. What more there 
may be is in the lap of the gods, and 
Sir, I am yours considerably, 

Uncle Louis. 

(7o be continued. ) 


By Albert Stearns. 

Chapter I. 


One cool September afternoon, a shabbily 
dressed boy sat upon the piazza of the Oakdale 
Hotel, reading a book even shabbier than him- 
self — a yellow-leaved, torn, battered, dog's- 
eared volume with only one cover. But, dis- 
reputable as it looked, the lad seemed to find it 
good company ; for, as he read and read, the 
color on his freckled cheeks came and went, and 
he would sometimes nervously hold his breath 
throughout an entire paragraph, to emit it at 
last in a prolonged sigh. 

At the other end of the piazza, leaning negli- 
gently against the railing, was a man whose 
eyes had for some time been intently fixed upon 
the lad, whom he presently approached, saying : 

" You seem much interested in that book, 
my boy." 

The youth looked up with a start, reddened 
slightly, and replied : 

" I am, sir." 

Then he fell to studying his companion, who 
was really a rather strange-looking individual. 
He was a man of middle age, medium height, 
and very dark complexion; his hair was black 
and curly, and he wore a short, bristling beard. 

But what arrested and held the boy's atten- 
tion was the fact that, while one of the stran- 
ger's eyes was black, piercing, and defiant, the 
other, strange to say, was of a tender, languish- 
ing blue. 

His costume, like his eyes, was odd. He 
wore a dark frock-coat cut in the latest style, 
snowy linen, a silk hat of the most recent pat- 
tern, perfect fitting shoes, and very little jewelry, 
but that little of the best. Nothing very odd 
in this, you think ; but I have not yet described 
his trousers. They were so soiled and patched 
that it was difficult to tell what the original ma- 
terial had looked like. There was an inch or 
more of fringe at the bottom of each leg, and, 
as the boy thought, the most dilapidated and 
disreputable tramp that had ever passed through 



Oakdale would have scorned to accept them as 
a gift. 

" It 's the ' Arabian Nights ' you 're reading, 
is n't it ? " went on the stranger. " Yes, I see 
it is. You have the 1804 London edition; 
where did you get it ? " 

" It was in Professor Adams's library, and — " 

" Who 's Professor Adams ? But never mind 
— what do I care about Professor Adams? 
Now what particular story of the collection are 
you reading, may I ask ? " 

" The ' History of Sindbad the Sailor/ " re- 
plied the boy, his eyes glistening. " I 've read 
it six times before." 

" You have, eh ? " said the stranger. " Well, 
you ought to be ashamed to acknowledge it. 
But there, there ! you don't know any better. 
I 'd like to see your parents about it, though ; 
do they live in this place ? " 

" No, they don't," snapped the boy, flushing 
angrily; then, with his book under his arm, he 
bolted into the house. 

" Not over polite, that lad ! " soliloquized the 
gentleman; "but he- does n't understand me. 
I rather like him ; there 's an atmosphere of 
mystery about him that my trained instincts 
recognized at once. I wonder who he is." 

At this moment Mr. Pettibone, the landlord, 
stepped out upon the piazza. 

" Wa' n't that a ten-dollar gold-piece yeou 
give me when yeou paid yeour bill 'baout quar- 
ter of an haour ago ? " 

" It was, sir," replied the stranger. 

" Wa-al, I wonder what in time hez become 
on't! I put it intew the drawer an' locked it 
up, an' when I went tew git it jest naow 
't wa' n't there. Ef there 's thieves in this 
haouse — " 

" I don't believe you have any thieves here, 
sir," interrupted the gentleman. " Perhaps we 
were both mistaken as to the denomination of 
the coin I gave you. Permit me to make your 
loss good " ; and he thrust his hand into one 
of the pockets of the old trousers and produced 
a shining gold eagle. 

"Wa-al, I dunno 's I ought ter — " began 
the landlord; but his guest interrupted him 
with : 

" Nonsense, my dear fellow ! Take it ; there 
are more where that came from." 


but ef I find the 

" Wa-al, I '11 take it then 
other — " 

"You can return it — if you find it," said the 
gentleman, with a peculiar smile which Mr. 
Pettibone did not understand. " And now, 
landlord," he added, " I want to ask you a 
question : Who 's the lad that just went into 
the house ? He has a rather interesting face." 

" Him ? " sniffed Mr. Pettibone. " Oh, that 's 
only Tom Smith." 

" Only ? " queried the stranger. " Why the 
adverb ? " 

" Hey ? " 

" I mean, why do you say only Tom Smith ? " 

" Oh, 'cause he ain't much accaount. Fact 
is, he 's a kind of an elephant on my hands." 

" How is that ? " 

" It 's a ruther long story, an' I don't s'pose 
't would interest you much," said Mr. Petti- 
bone, evidently eager to tell it. 

"Oh, yes, it would; let 's have it," said the 
gentleman, seating himself and lighting a cigar. 

" Wa-al, jest ez yeou say " ; and the landlord 
deposited his lanky frame upon a chair near 
that occupied by his guest. " Yeou see," he 
went on, " that there Tom Smith is a kind of a 
myst'ry in these parts." 

" I said so ! I knew it ! " exclaimed the 


" Go on, go on ! " said the gentleman impa- 
tiently. " You have interested me deeply." 

Mr. Pettibone, who had always prided him- 
self on his ability as a story-teller, was plainly 
gratified. Tilting his chair back, and resting 
his cowhide boots upon the piazza railing, he 
said : 

" 'T wuz nine years ago this month that that 
there youngster was took up tew Perfesser 
Adams's academy — that big brick buildin' yeou 
see up on the hill yonder — an' left there tew 
be eddicated. He wa' n't more than five or six 
years old then, but he wuz ez smart ez a steel 
trap, an' the old perfesser an' his wife took a 
fancy tew him. Them awful smart children 
never amaounts tew much when they grow up 
— I s'pose yeou 've noticed that." 

" Who brought the boy to Oakdale ? " asked 
the stranger. 

" I wuz jest a-goin' tew tell yeou. He wuz a 




kind o' queer-lookin' feller, they say — dressed 
tew kill, but sort o' nervous an' cranky. He 
paid fer a year's schoolin' in advance, an' went 
away 'thout givin' his name or address ; he 
did n't even wait fer a receipt fer his money. 
The youngster cried fit tew raise the roof when 
he left. Arter a while they got him kind o' 
quieted daown, an' then they tried tew find 
aout his name. But all he could tell 'em wuz 
that 't wuz Tommy ; he 'd either never heerd 
his last name, or he 'd fergot it, fer ter this day 
he nor nobody else don't know what 't is. The 
perfesser called him Smith, 'cause — wa-al, I 
s'pose 'cause he had tew call him somethin', an' 
Smith 's 'baout ez handy an all-raound name ez 
there is." 

" And the fellow who left the boy there 
never came back ? " interrupted the evidently 
interested listener. 

" Wait a minute ! " said Mr. Pettibone se- 
verely, not pleased at having the point to 
which he was trying to work up anticipated in 
this rough-and-ready manner; " wait a minute, 
I 'm gittin' tew that. Days passed, an' weeks, 
an' months, an' years; Mis' Adams, she in- 
quired 'raound among the neighbors, an' at last 
the perfesser, he hired detectives, an' they dew 
say he paid ez much ez a hunderd dollars tew 
them. They hunted 'raound the best they 
knew haow — leastways they told the perfesser 
they did. They s'arched in Boston, an' in New 
York, an' in — " 

" And in other localities, but they did not 
find the man ; is n't that what you were going 
to say ? " 

" Wa-al, I s'pose 't is; but — " 

" Pardon me for interrupting you," said the 
stranger very politely, yet with a twinkle in his 
right eye — the black one, " but -my time is 
precious. The man was never found, and the 
professor and his good wife kept the boy at the 
academy from year to year, hoping that some 
time the mystery surrounding him would be 
cleared up ; is n't that right ? " 

" Wa-al, sence yeou know all abaout it, I 
don't see why yeou got me tew tell the story," 
said Mr. Pettibone sulkilv. 

" My good friend," laughed the gentleman, 
" I am gifted with a little imagination, as you 
would be aware if you knew me better. Well, 

how much longer do the professor and his wife 
intend to keep the lad ? " 

" Don't yeou remember I told yeou he wuz 
an elephant on my hands ? " said the landlord. 
" The perfesser's wife died four years ago, the 
perfesser died last month, the academy 's shet 
up, an' all the scholars is gone home 'xcept 
Tom Smith, an' he 's been kind o' loafin' 
'raound, waitin' fer somethin' ter turn up." 

" So he does n't belong anywhere in particu- 
lar ? " the stranger said. 

" No ; an' he ain't good fer nothin' in pertick- 
'ler, ez fur ez I kin find aout," returned mine 
host, laboriously rising to his feet. " I did think 
some o' givin' him a job here, but he don't 
seem tew take no int'rest in nothin' but them 
fool stories he 's allers a-readin'." 

" He was reading the absurd and utterly un- 
reliable account of the voyages of Sindbad the 
Sailor, just before he went into the house," said 
the guest with considerable warmth. 

" I dunno the name o' the piece," said Mr. 
Pettibone, " but I don't b'lieve it 's fit readin' 
fer a youngster like him ; I know I would n't 
let my children read it — ef I had enny." 

" You are a man of intelligence, sir," said the 
gentleman warmly, his black eye softening and 
his blue eye positively melting as he turned 
them on his companion. " Those garbled ac- 
counts of the doings of Sindbad are calculated 
to do — have done — inestimable harm to the 
— er — the memory of that famous explorer." 

Mr. Pettibone did not, apparently, see the 
force of this statement, for he looked rather be- 
wildered ; but as he entered the house he as- 
serted uncompromisingly : 

" None o' my children would n't read it, not 
ef I had a baker's dozen of 'em." 

" Kindly send the boy out to me, landlord," 
the stranger called after him. " I 'd like to 
have a little talk with him." 

Five minutes later Tom Smith came shuf- 
fling out of the hotel, his book under his arm. 
Standing in the doorway, and eying the gentle- 
man somewhat resentfully, he said : 

" Mr. Pettibone says you want to see me." 

" I do, my lad. Come and sit down here." 

Instead of taking the chair designated by the 
stranger, Tom perched himself on the piazza 
railing, saying : 

1896. J 



" Well, here I am." 

" Yes, and there your book is," said his com- 
panion, " — your 1804 copy of the 'Arabian 
Nights,' containing that absurd account of the 
adventures of Sindbad the Sailor. I seem fated 
to run across that volume wherever I go " ; 
and the gentleman's brows contracted, his face 
flushed, and his right eye blazed ominously. 

" If you don't like the book you don't have 
to read it," suggested Tom, rather impudently. 

" I don't like it, and I don't read it — that is, 
not very often ; once in a while I do, just to 
keep myself as mad as I know I ought to be to 
maintain my self-respect. Boy," — with an 
abrupt change of tone, — " I 've a great mind 
to confide in you. I will. Just step into the 
office and look at my name on the register; 
it 's the entry right across the large grease-spot, 
and you may not be able to make it out." 

Tom looked a little apprehensive as he 
sidled past his companion ; perhaps he was 
afraid that the gentleman with the assorted 
eyes was crazy. In a few moments he returned. 

" Did you find the entry ? " queried the gen- 

" Yes, sir." 

" And what was it ? " 

" George W. Sindbad, Bagdad." 

" That 's right. My lad, / am Sindbad the 
Sailor ! " 

Chapter II. 


Tom stared at his companion a few mo- 
ments with a half-frightened look ; then, his 
sense of humor overcoming his fear, he burst 
into a loud laugh, and said : 

" Why, you can't be ! " 

"Why can't I?" asked the gentleman, calmly 
lighting a fresh cigar. 

" Why, because — because you can't. The 
' Arabian Nights ' was written ever so many 
hundred years ago." 

" I know that." 

"Well, you can't be seven or eight hundred 
years old." 

" Why can't I ? " inquired Mr. Sindbad pla- 

" Because — because you don't look it." 

" You should never judge by appearances, 
my lad." 

" But people don't live to be so old as that." 

" Most people don't, but there are exceptions 
to every rule, and I am an exception to that 
one. I am several hundred years old, though 
I don't suppose I look more than forty-five or 

" No, you don't," replied Tom, now con- 
vinced that the gentleman with the variegated 
eyes was stark, staring mad. " Well, I guess I 
must be going," he added, his nervous fear re- 

" No, you must n't ; stay right where you 
are. I have business with you." 

As he spoke Mr. Sindbad fastened his black 
eye upon the boy, and Tom felt as if he were 
fixed to the spot. 

" What sort of business ? " he faltered. 

" Several sorts. In the first place, I want to 
convince you that I am really Sindbad the 
Sailor. You have heard of Ponce de Leon and 
his search for the Fountain of Youth ? " 

" Yes, sir." 

" Well, do you know why he did n't find it ? 
Because I got there several centuries before he 
was born — on my sixteenth voyage, in fact. 
The fountain was nearly dried up then, but I 
got a drink from it. I was then forty-seven 
years of age, and I have stuck there ever since. 
I don't suppose I shall ever be any older. Men 
come up and go down, kingdoms spring into 
life, and decay, and are forgotten, but I remain 
forty-seven just the same." 

" You must be very tired of life by this 
time," said the incredulous Tom, with a faint 
giggle, as he tried to get a little nearer the door 
while Mr. Sindbad's magnetic right eye was cast 

" Oh, I might be if I 'd let myself," replied 
the sailor; " but I make it a rule never to worry 
about what I can't help. I see plainly that 
you don't believe me yet " ; and once more 
the black eye seemed to be reading Tom's very 

"I — I think maybe you 're mistaken," fal- 
tered the boy. 

" Mistaken ! " exclaimed Mr. Sindbad. " Now, 
that suggestion is almost an insult. But there ! 
I must not lose my temper. Let us argue the 




matter, my lad. Why do you think I am mis- 
taken ? " 

" Well, in the first place," said Tom, " Sind- 
bad's name was not George W." 

" How do you know it was n't ? " asked the 
gentleman sharply. 

"The 'Arabian Nights' does n't say it was." 

" There are a good many true things that 
you don't find in the 'Arabian Nights.' But, as 
a matter of fact, my name is not George W., 
except in this country. When I am in France, 
I am Anatole Sindbad ; in Germany I am 
known as Fritz Sindbad. I find that in the 
United States George Washington is a very 
popular name, so here I am George Washing- 
ton Sindbad. There 's one of your arguments 
knocked over; now let 's hear another." 

" You spoke just now of your sixteenth voy- 
age ; Sindbad made only seven voyages." 

" How do you know that ? But you need not 
answer — you read it in the 'Arabian Nights.' 
Well, now, let me tell you it is a base falsehood, 
designed to injure me in the eyes of posterity — 
though, come to think of it, I don't suppose 
there will be such a thing for me as posterity. 
That seven-voyage yarn was an invention of 
that fellow Hindbad." 

"The porter?" 

" Yes. Oh, I wish I 'd lodged a complaint 
against the scoundrel at the nearest pasha's, 
and had him thoroughly bastinadoed ! " 

'■ But," said Tom, beginning to think that 
there might be something, after all, in the 
stranger's queer story, " I thought you' and he 
were great friends." 

" So we were for a while, but our friendship 
lasted only a week." 

" You used to give him a hundred sequins 
every time he called — the book says so, any- 

For the first time since the interview began 
Sindbad seemed embarrassed. He hesitated, 
coughed rather nervously, then said : 

" I '11 tell you how that was. Like all ex- 
plorers, I am rather fond of narrating my ad- 
ventures. It always interests me to hear my- 
self talk, especially on the subject of the dangers 
I have passed. But some of my old Bagdad 
friends used to feel differently, and when I be- 
gan the story of one of my voyages they would 

interrupt me, and try to change the subject. 
It actually got to the point where I had to give 
a ten-course dinner to get any one to listen to 
me. Just then, this fellow Hindbad happened 
along, and I secured him as a listener by giv- 
ing him one hundred sequins per voyage ; and 
with each instalment of cash he got a purse 
worth at least five sequins. It was a reckless 
waste, I acknowledge, but I always was liberal 
and easy-going." 

" What is a sequin worth in United States 
money ? " asked Tom. 

" Oh, something like a dollar eighty-five, I 
believe," replied Mr. Sindbad impatiently. 

" Then you gave Hindbad nearly two hun- 
dred dollars just for listening to your account 
of one voyage ? " 

" Yes ; to say nothing of the purse and a big 
dinner — and how that man could eat! But 
don't keep interrupting me. All went well 
enough until the eighth day. My eighth voy- 
age was — well, it was a hummer! and I was 
feeling in good spirits at the prospect of having 
a chance to tell it. But Hindbad came strag- 
gling in with such a long face, that one glance 
at it put me out of sorts. ' What 's the mat- 
ter ? ' I asked him. ' Matter enough,' he re- 
plied surlily. ' Can I see you alone a minute? ' 
I granted him a private interview, and he at 
once started in on a long prose poem begin- 
ning : ' Lo, how wretched am I ! ' This was 
in accordance with one of our Arabian customs, 
but as it was a custom that I never thought 
much of anyway, and as the dinner was getting 
cold, I interrupted him at the end of the first 
line, saying : ' Cut it short, Hindbad, and get 
down to business. What can I do for you ? ' 
' Sindbad,' he said, taken aback by my abrupt- 
ness, ' has it never struck you that a hundred 
sequins is a pretty slim fee for listening to the 
story of one of your voyages ? ' Well, my boy, 
I was never so astonished in my life. ' What 
do you mean ? ' I gasped. ' I mean just this,' 
he replied : ' I must have a hundred and fifty 
sequins after this, and the yarns must be cut 
down one half. Does that go ? ' Now," said 
Sindbad, relighting his cigar, which in his ex- 
citement he had allowed to go out, " did you 
ever hear of anything like that ? " 

Tom murmured that he never had, and asked 

1896 ] 



his companion what reply he made to the un- 
grateful Hindbad. 

•' I simply told him," replied Sindbad, " that 
I could not for a moment entertain his proposal ; 
that I considered a hundred sequins a fair 
price, and that I could get dozens of the best 
people in Bagdad to listen to my story of 
my voyages for half the money. ' You 'd 
better get 'em, then,' was his reply. 'All 
right; I will,' I said. Then he began to 
weaken. ' Well,' he said, ' maybe we 
can come to terms, Sindbad. It is n't 
that I don't like your stories, be- 
cause I do ' — this notwithstand- 
ing the fact that he had gone 
to sleep on the previous even- 
ing at the most interesting 
place in my seventh voyage — 
where the elephant tore up 
by the roots the tree upon 
which I was roosted ; you 
remember that ? " 

'■ Yes, indeed ! " said 
Tom, breathlessly. 

'•Well, that 's just 
the point at which that 
clod fell asleep, and it 
took me five minutes to 
awaken him. But, as I 
was saying, he insisted 
he was so fond of my 
stories that if he could 
have his way he 'd give 
up his business as por- 
ter and listen to my 
account of my voyages all day, at the 
uniform rate of one hundred sequins 
per voyage. ' I must, however, think 
of my family,' he said; ' and for their 
sake I am compelled to insist upon 
a hundred and fifty. You see how 
I am placed, don't you ? ' Well, I 
absolutely refused to pay him more than my 
regular rate. Then he said : ' We won't quar- 
rel about a trifle, Sindbad, old man. Make it 
a hundred and thirty sequins, and I '11 be here 
regularly every evening. I don't feel as if I 
could get along without your deeply interesting 
stories.' This might have melted me if I had n't 
happened to catch him in the act of winking at 
Vol. XXIII.— 26. 

a black slave of mine who was standing at the 
other end of the room. That settled it; I had 
him ejected from the house at once, and I 've 
never been able to bear the sight of a porter 

" Did he ever come back, sir ? " asked Tom. 


I can't,' SAID SINDBAD." 

" Oh, yes, several times; but I would n't see 
him. The last time he called he sent up a note, 
in which he stated that on account of the hard 
times and the fierce competition against which 
he had to contend, he was willing to give me 
three evenings a week for fifty sequins ; or the 
whole seven, and a matinee if I insisted, for a 
hundred. But I paid no attention to his com- 




munication, and that was the last I heard of 
him for a number of years ; in fact, I had for- 
gotten all about him when the ' Arabian Nights ' 
came out, and, to my amazement, I found my 
first seven voyages among the contents. The 
book was edited, compiled, and partly written 
by an enterprising though unscrupulous young 
journalist of Bagdad, — at least, we 'd call him 
a journalist in these days, — and he had bought 
Hindbad's garbled story of my voyages for five 
sequins. Think of that ! Now do you wonder 
that the very mention of that man Hindbad's 
name enrages me ? " 

Tom said he did n't, and inquired if Hind- 
bad's account of the voyages was really so very 

" Oh, in the main it 's pretty nearly right," 
replied Sindbad ; " but he omits some interesting 
facts and introduces several incidents that never 
occurred at all. Then he makes himself alto- 
gether too prominent. And look at his descrip- 
tion of me ! He says I am ' a grave and vener- 
able personage whose long white beard hung 
down to his breast.' Now that 's simply malice ; 
for, as you see, there is n't a white hair in my 

Tom was still only half convinced that it was 
really the original Sindbad who sat opposite 
him telling this most extraordinary story. 

" You speak first-rate English," he said, rather 
suspiciously ; " I should never have thought 
that you were a foreigner." 

" I acquired the faculty of speaking all lan- 
guages during my nineteenth voyage," returned 
Sindbad. " I '11 tell you about it some time. 
But I see you are still skeptical as to the genu- 
ineness of my claim. Now, as I am anxious to 
remove the last lingering doubt from your mind, 
I will prove to you that I am, to say the least, 
no ordinary man; and you will inferentially con- 
clude that I am the one and only Sindbad." 

Tom muttered something about being con- 
vinced already ; but Mr. Sindbad interrupted 
him with a grim smile, saying : 

" No, you 're not; but you will be in a minute 
or two. During my twenty-fifth voyage I was 
held a prisoner by a fairy several months, during 
which time she changed me into a number of dif- 
ferent animals. I was always very observant, and 
I watched her closely and found out how she did 

it; and I can transform myself into any animal 
you like to mention. Just name three or four 
while you are about it, and I '11 change myself into 
all of them with a rapidity that will astonish you." 

" Well, he is crazy, and no mistake," thought 
Tom, " but I 'd better humor him." So he 
said, "Well, change yourself into a horse, a 
kangaroo, and an elephant." 

" That 's easy," laughed Sindbad. " Now 
watch me closely. By the way, you 'd better 
step over to the other end of the piazza if you 
don't want to get kicked by the animals." 

Tom obeyed this suggestion with alacrity, 
only too glad to increase the distance between 
himself and his strange companion. 

" Now, then," said Sindbad, " are you ready ? " 

" I 'm ready if you are," replied Tom, who 
had made up his mind to jump off the piazza 
and run if his new acquaintance became violent. 

The next moment there was a whizz and a 
whirr, Sindbad vanished like a puff of smoke, 
and in his place appeared in astonishingly rapid 
succession the three animals Tom had named. 
With such amazing swiftness did they material- 
ize and disappear that it seemed to the boy as 
if he had seen them all at once. 

One of them — Tom suspected the elephant 
— kicked the chair upon which Sindbad had 
been sitting into the middle of the road; it had 
scarcely touched the ground when the explorer 
reappeared, smiling triumphantly, but a little 
out of breath. 

" Well, are you convinced ? " he asked. 

" I should say so ! " gasped Tom. " I never 
saw anything like that." 

" It 's easy enough when you know how," 
responded Sindbad lightly. 

" But what made you do it so fast ? " asked 

" You seem to forget," replied Sindbad, 
"that this is a public place. If any one had 
happened along and seen me standing there as 
an elephant, it would have been very awkward 
for me. I should have been obliged to re- 
transform myself into a man before his eyes, 
and my secret would have been out ; and I 'm 
not letting the general public into this. So 
you see I had to rush things. Do you mind 
getting that chair for me ? I forgot to put it 
out of my way." 



Tom had just returned the chair to its place but I 'm afraid I can't," said Sindbad. " By 

on the piazza, when Mr. Pettibone again 
emerged from the house. He was scratching 
his head as if greatly puzzled, and his face 
wore a troubled look. 

■• This beats anything ever / see," he said. 
" I 've lost the second gold eagle yeou give 

" Indeed ? " said Sindbad. " You seem to 
be rather careless with your money." 

" I ain't gin'ally. I can't make aout what 's 
become on 't. Yeou see me put it intew my 
pocket, did n't yeou ? " 

" I did. Perhaps there is a hole in your 

" No, there ain't; but the gold piece is gone. 
I 'm sure o' that," said the landlord. 

" I 'm really very sorry. I 'd offer you an- 
other, if I could afford it." 

" Oh, I don't expect nothin' o' that sort," Mr. 
Pettibone assured his guest. " Yeou 've paid 
me twice a'ready. But I would like tew know 
what 's become o' that there money." 

" I wish I could find it for you, my friend ; 

the way, can you give me change for another 
gold eagle ? " 

" Cal'late I kin " ; and Mr. Pettibone pro- 
duced a roll of bills from his pocket, saying : 

" Yeou see, the rest o' my money 's all right. 
It 's only that there gold piece that 's gone 
Here you be, Mr. Sindbad — five, seven, nine, 
ten; cal'late yeou '11 find that all right." 

" Thank you, sir , and here is your gold 

" You don't carry nuthin' but gold, dew 
you ? " said Mr. Pettibone. 

" Very little else." 

" VVa-al, I ain't goin' tew let this piece slip 
through my fingers. I '11 take it an' lock it up 
in the safe right naow." 

As the landlord reentered the house, Sindbad 
turned abruptly to Tom, saying : 

" I 've got to leave this place by the next 
train. Now then, my boy, I have a business 
proposition to make you. What do you say to 
going into partnership with me under the firm 
name of Sindbad, Smith & Co. ? " 

( To be continued. ) 


By Guy Wetmore Carryl. 

When January breezes blow, 

The New Year comes across the snow, 

So pure and young, so straight and slender, 
His eyes alight, his cheeks aglow ; 
And round him, shifting to and fro, 

The whitened world of drifted splendor. 

The frozen pond is smooth and wide ; 
The skaters swing from side to side, 

And little boys, pursuing after, 
Arrayed in furs and filled with pride, 
Upon the glassy surface slide, 

And fall in heaps with shouts of laughter. 

Within the yard the children play, 
Attacking in a cruel way 

A tall snow-man, who stares about him, 
And, smiling coldly, seems to say 
No icy cannonading may 

Suffice ingloriously to rout him. 

Within the house the fire glows, 
And ruddy apples, ranged in rows 

Before the blaze, are blithely peeling. 
The sun to bed discreetly goes, 
And then the doors of daylight close, 

And clear and cold the night comes stealing 


By Charles Love Benjamin. 

Somehow I can't understand 

What the teacher said to-day, 
About the seasons and the way 

That the earth is tilted, and 
How the days keep getting short, — 

Short and shorter in the fall, — 
Till (she said) the winter brought 

Us the shortest days of all. 

That stumps me — that 's what it does ! 

The shortest days I ever saw 
Came this summer, when I was 

Camping out at Colton's. Pshaw ! 

Talk about those days being long, 
Why, they went by like a streak ! 

Forty of 'em (or I 'm wrong) 
Would n't reallv make a week. 

And now, she says, the days are short; 

She made a diagram to show 
Just how it was. I s'pose I ought 

To understand — But all I know. 
To-morrow holidays begin; 

To-morrow Christmas '11 be here; 
But I 'm sure to-day has been 

The longest day in all the year ! 


By J. 


[Begun in the November }tumbcr.\ 

Chapter XI. 


" No," said Gid; " I was just going to, when 
you came." 

" You had n't been in the house, then, since 
yesterday ? " 

The inquiries were taking a direction that 

It was ten minutes after this that the winner did n't seem at all alarming ; yet Gid felt that 

of the prize cup stepped out from the open he was on the brink of some danger. As he 

door, put up a beckoning hand, and called in really had not been in the house since the day 

a very gentle voice, as if he had been addressing before, he thought he might as well stick to 

the Babes in the Wood : 

" Gideon, if you please ! Here, a minute ! " 
There was nothing in his look or tone to in- 
dicate the slightest inquietude of mind ; so that 
Gid experienced a sense of relief to his ever- 
growing apprehensions. 

Fred had had time to discuss the situation 
with his friend, and to prepare for a calm, judi- 
cial inquiry. As he stepped back into the 
house, Gid followed, with a countenance al- 
most too open and candid. It was, however, 
startled a little out of its childlike innocence 
of expression by the aspect of the solitary 
bottle on the table. 

the truth — and stuck to it. 

" How happens it, then, that this window 
was unclasped ? " 

'• Was it ? " Gid exclaimed, in genuine surprise. 

" I found it so," Fred Melverton replied. 
"Any rogue could have have got in." 

Gid looked hot and troubled. But he said 
earnestly : 

" I don't know how it happened. 1 thought 
I clasped it. I can't understand ! " 

He began to tremble, remembering that he 
had not opened that window since the after- 
noon when he left the room in such haste to 
follow Osk Ordway to the cellar. He had, in- 

" The house seems to be in pretty good con- deed, avoided that part of the house ever since, 
dition," Melverton remarked, standing with his on account of the disagreeable associations his 
hand on the back of his friend's chair ; Quimby conscience connected with it. 

meanwhile playing with his empty glass, and 
smiling upon Gideon. 

•' I 'm glad you find it so," said Gideon, 

" After we are gone," Fred proceeded, " you 
can take the empty bottle to the cellar. You 
know where the case is ? " 

( jid gave a little gasp, but answered promptly, 
" I guess I can find it." 

He felt the eyes of both young men upon 
him, and his face, which was slightly pale at 
first, began to flush. 

" When were you in the house last ? " in- 
quired the young proprietor. 

" When I shut it up yesterday afternoon." 

" When did you have it open last ? " Fred 

"I — can't — remember," Gid replied, fear- 
ful of committing himself. 

" You have n't had any of your friends in the 
house since you have been in charge ? " Fred 
smilingly queried. 

For a moment Gid felt the dreadful necessity 
of telling the simple truth, and gaining some 
sort of foothold in the mire of deception in 
which he felt himself sinking. But the spirit 
of Osk Ordway seemed to control him, and he 
answered stoutly : 

" No ; of course not." 

•'And — you said you guessed you could 

"Oh! I remember! You had n't opened the find the case of cider-bottles; — you had n't 
windows to-day." found it already ? " 





And Gid repeated, even more emphatically, 
" No; of course not." 

He had drunk but little of the two bottles he 
had permitted Osk to open ; and Osk had per- 
suaded him that the Melvertons were not a 
family that counted their bottles very closely. 
Still he had been troubled with a dread of 
these questions, and he 
had made up his mind 
beforehand how he 
would answer them. 
A good, rousing false- 
hood, he hoped, would 
carry him through his 
present difficulties. 

" I did n't suppose 
you would," said the 
young man, pleasantly. 
" Don't consider me 
too inquisitive, but I 
would like to ask — 
who unlocked this 
drawer ? " 

Gid was stunned for 
a moment. Seeing the 
drawer closed, and the 
key in it, and being 
sure he had not left 
it so, he wondered how 
Fred could have found 
out that it had been 

•■ That drawer ! " he said, with growing agi- 
tation. " Unlocked ? 1 don't know anything 
about it! " 

" Did you know what was in it ? " Fred 

"Y-yes," Gid faltered. "I thought you 
put your prize cup in it the day you left me 
in charge." 

" You saw that, did you ? " Fred queried, 
looking sharply at him. 

Gid was afraid he was admitting too much ; 
but he answered : 

'• I could n't help seeing you put the cup 
in the drawer. I happened to look back just 
as I was leaving the room, that day you left 
for the sea-shore." 

" There is no mistake, then, about my lock- 
ing the cup in the drawer? I was beginning 

to think there might be," Fred remarked, so 
unsuspiciously and quietly that Gid was quite 
sine he had admitted too much. 

" I ain't quite positive," he said. " I thought 
you put it in one of the drawers." 

The questioner did «* i not seem to no- 
tice this qualification, ( n- f but added : 



" And you 've been the only one in 
house since ? " 

" Fur as I know," replied the culprit, aghast 
at what he felt sure was coming. 

" Well, there 's the drawer," said Fred, open- 
ing it. " But it 's empty — like the bottles" — 
with a smile of gleaming sarcasm. " Gideon 
Ketterell ! — where 's that cup ? " 

l8 9 6.] 



Chapter XII. 


Gid stepped to the drawer, and saw for him- 
self that the prize cup was gone. Only the red 
napkin remained as it had been left when he 
replaced the cup after showing it to Osk. 

" Hain't you took it out ? " he asked, as he 
turned an appealing look on Fred Melverton. 

Fred replied, imperturbably: 

'■ I have n't taken it, nor seen it, since you 
were witness to my locking it in that drawer." 

"Must have been stole!" Gid murmured. 
" Looks as though the house had been broke 
into ! " 

" It certainly has been stolen," the young 
master replied frankly. " And the house has 
been broken into, unless your key let the rob- 
ber in." 

"But I hain't took it!" Gid protested, 
with the utmost earnestness. " I don't know 
nothing about it!" In times of unusual ex- 
citement he was apt to relapse into double 
negatives, an early habit, of which he was 
supposed to have been cured at school. " I 
wish I did ! " 

He was almost ready to cry. Better than 
that, he was almost ready to tell the truth. 
Why had he not done so before ? Why had 
he not explained at once how Osk forced his 
way into the house, actually compelled him to 
show the cup, and then opened two bottles of 
the cider — drinking the most of it himself — in 
spite of him ? Instead of that, he had gone 
on with denial after denial, winding himself up 
in this terrible entanglement, from which even 
confession itself might not clear him. 

Fred Melverton put to him a few more 
searching questions, without obtaining satisfac- 
tory replies, then said quietly : 

" I don't see that you will help me much in 
clearing up the mystery. You can go, Gideon, 
and await further orders." 

Again Gideon turned toward him with red, 
appealing eyes. 

"I hope you don't think I — " he uttered, 
with a lump in his throat. 

" I am not prepared to say what I think," 
the young man replied, with a resolute calm- 

ness more terrifying to poor Gid than violent 
threats or accusations would have been. " Go, 

Gid hesitated, struggled with the lump in 
his throat, trying to speak, and finally with- 
drew without another word ; but paused again 
at the door, with half a mind to go back and 
confess his own share in the transaction which 
he felt sure must at least have opened the way 
to the robbery. But that simple step required 
more courage than he possessed ; and every 
moment was making it more difficult for him to 
take it. He slowly went down the steps, and 
presently the merry clatter of the lawn-mower 
was heard once more. But it was not a merry 
sound to Gid's ear. 

Then Fred Melverton turned to his guest, 
who had all the while sat a silent spectator of 
the scene, and exclaimed : 

" Old fellow, speak a word ! " 

And the guest replied, " It 's a funny con- 
glom' ! " meaning conglomeration, as we may 
as well interpret for the benefit of those who 
have n't heard young people spice their speech 
with these peculiar abbreviations. 

" What do you make of that boy ? " Melver- 
ton asked, walking nervously to and fro. 

" Want my opin' ? Let me tell you first, 
Melf," the guest answered, " what I make of 
you. I 've thought the Tech " (Institute of 
Technology) "was your right place, and I was 
confirmed in that when I saw you befog that 
boy's brain (if he has one) with your jargon 
about ventilation, condensation, evaporation, 
and all the other 'ations. But now I 'm under 
the impresh' that you should have chosen the 

" How do you make that out ? " Melverton 

"Why, the way you cross-exam'd that un- 
willing witness was worthy of a first-class petti- 
fogger. You tangled him up like a dog-fish in 
a square rod of gill-netting." 

" Was n't it his own fault ? " Fred demanded, 
with some irritation. 

" No doubt of it ! " said Quimby. " It was 
not the bald-headed truth he was giving you. 
But it seemed to me you began at the wrong 
end of the string in trying to get the snarl 




" I don't see, Canton ! " Fred replied. 
'•What are you driving at?" 

" Suppose." said Canton Quimby, with a 
smile that would have sugar-coated his bitter- 
est criticism — " suppose you had shown him 

rueful laugh. " Instead of opening his mouth 
I was ingeniously shutting it." 

" Something like that," Quimby smilingly 

" How much does he know about the rob- 
the empty drawer in the first place and given bery ? " Fred demanded. 

him time to think what a serious business it " Something ; not everything," replied the 
was, before you tried your corkscrew ? " guest. 


" I was only trying to loosen the wires from 
the cork, before opening the bottle," Fred said, 
tossing back the figure of speech. 

" Instead of that you were all the while 
twisting them tighter. You let him commit 
himself to one denial after another, in minor 
matters which involved tracks that led directly 
to the trap you had ready to spring upon 
him — tracks he could n't retrace. Do I make 
my meaning clear ? " 

" I should say so ! " Fred exclaimed, with a 

" That 's the way I read him," said Melver- 
ton. " I can't think he stole the cup himself, 
but I 'm inclined to believe he knows who did. 
He 's mixed up in it." 

Canton Quimby nodded approvingly, and 
said : " Of course he is." 

"The cider I care nothing about; some not 
very bad boys might fall into a temptation of 
that sort. And I could pardon his careless- 
ness — if that 's the name for it — in leaving 
the window unclasped. But he is so evidently 




concealing something ! I 'm at a loss to know 
what to do." 

" Want my opin' ? " 

" I should like it very much." 

'• TeH that youthful prevaricator he can put 
on his coat and go home. In short, fire him! 
That is," said the guest, " unless he will tell you 
where the cup is, or who has it." 

" That 's the logic of it, of course," said Fred, 
again walking to and fro in troubled thought. 
" But I don't want to injure him. His mother 
is really a very worthy woman, and I hate a 

" Naturally," replied the guest. " But, Melf, 
it is n't generally thought wise to keep a per- 
son in a place of trust after he has shown him- 
self unfaithful." 

" You 're right every time," Fred said, hastily 
clearing the table ; which done, the two went 
out and walked about the place. 

" The house will be all right for a few days," 
remarked the young proprietor, musingly; " so 
will the lawn and the flower-beds. But I must 
get somebody to feed the cat and the poultry. 
I think I can manage that." 

Chapter XIII. 


The lawn had been trimmed, and Gid Ket- 
terell was running the inverted mower toward 
the barn, when Melverton intercepted him. 

" Well, Gideon, you 've had a little time to 
think about it. You see how it is. Can you 
give me any idea how that cup has got hocus- 
pocused out of the house while you have been 
in charge ? That 's what we 've got to find 
out, you know." 

" I know it," replied Gid. " And I 'd tell if 
I had the slightest notion what 's become of it, 
— but I hain't." 

In the interim of reflection he had fully re- 
solved to stick to his original story, and admit 
nothing that would reflect blame upon himself. 

" You can't think of anybody who may have 
known about it, and got into the house and 
taken it ? For I can't find that anything else 
has been touched," Fred continued. " Seems 
to me you must be able to tell us something." 

" I would if I could," Gid muttered, with a 
Vol. XXIII.— 27. 

dogged, down look, tipping his hat-brim so as 
to hide his conscious face ; " but I can't." 

" Sorry ! " replied Fred, exchanging glances 
with Canton Quimby, who stood by, twirling 
a flower in his fingers, but never losing a word 
of the dialogue. " I 'm afraid I shall have to 
dispense with your services, Gideon." 

" All right ! " said Gideon, surlily. That was 
evidently what he had expected. 

" The house has been entered," the young 
master continued, " I rather think, more than 
once. Cider-bottles have been emptied; I find 
a sash unfastened, and a prize no money can re- 
place has disappeared. Mind, I don't accuse 
you of anything. But look at it yourself, — 
does n't it seem as if the place might have been 
better taken care of? " 

" Maybe it might; don't know," Gid mum- 
bled. He wanted to say more, but the lump 
was in his throat again; and, indeed, what 
could he say, unless he began by retracting his 
previous denials, the falsity of which he felt 
was certain some day to appear ? 

Fred waited a minute for him to speak, then 
said gently : 

" I '11 take your key of the house, if you 
please." Gid produced it from his pocket. 
" Thank you, Gideon." 

" Sha'n't I carry that bottle to the cellar ? " 
Gid inquired, looking up with a sullen despair 
in his eyes. 

" No, I won't trouble you. The bottles will 
do very well without your attention," Fred re- 
plied, with a shade of sarcasm in his tones. 
"Let's see, you 've been here — not quite so 
long as you might have stayed under other cir- 
cumstances." He was opening his pocket-book, 
while Gid, his eyes once more cast down, 
kicked the graveled walk with his toes. "It 
was to be five dollars a week, was n't it ? " 

Gid's features worked, and a tear slid down 
his cheek. He had been so proud of his 
"snap," as he called it; and the money, to be so 
easily earned, had seemed so much to him ! I 
regret to say, he had considered far less what 
it would be to his hard-working mother. It 
was as a hard-hitting mother that he thought 
of her now. 

"We '11 call it seven dollars," said Melverton, 
" if that strikes you favorably." 




" I don't want your money," Gid muttered, 
sniffing away his tears. " I won't take it ! " 

He was turning away, convulsed with grief, 
or anger, or remorse, or dread of his mother, 
or all these together, when Fred laid a hand 
kindly on his shoulder, and with the other ex- 
tended the bank-notes. 

" Oh, yes, you will, Gideon ! " he said, his 
voice trembling a little with sympathetic emo- 
tion. " Take it to your mother ; she can't af- 
ford to miss anything you may have the luck 
to earn. I hoped you would earn a good deal 
for her and yourself during the summer. I am 
as much disappointed as you are, Gideon." 

He thrust the bills under the boy's suspen- 
ders. Then, after a pause : " In parting with 
you, may I give you a bit of advice ? — with the 
kindest feelings toward you, Gideon, under- 
stand. If another chance offers, be faithful, 
— and truthful, and — " His voice broke. 
" Gideon," he added, with an effort at self- 
control, " I am as sorry as you are; and — 
I — I wish you well!" 

This was more than Gid could stand. He 
was prepared to encounter harsh and threaten- 
ing words ; but kindness was too much for him. 
He started to speak, but found he could n't 
without sobbing. If Fred had given him time, 
and asked him again to tell the truth, he might 
have told all. But Fred merely said, " Leave 
the barn key in the door, after you have put away 
the mower," and walked off with his friend. 

Gid cast a lowering look after them, as they 
passed through the rhododendron clumps, and 
down the bank; then glanced at the money, 
as he put it into his pocket, muttering revenge- 
fully : " It was Osk, — I know it was, as well as 
if I 'd seen him do it ! It 's all up with me ! 
I '11 just about kill him, when I ketch him, if 
ma don't kill me first ! " 

Chapter XIV. 


" What do you think now ? " Fred asked 
his friend, as he led the way down the bank 
toward the brooklet. 

" Want my opin' ? " 

" I always want it." 

'■ In the first place," said Canton Quimby, 

" I find I was mistaken, after all, about your 
proper sphere. It 's neither science nor the 
law ; it 's the ministry." 

" How do you cipher that out ? " 

" Why, you talked to that scapegrace like 
a regular old parson. Almost made me cry!" 

" I hope I have n't wronged him ! Or, ra- 
ther, I hope I have ! I shall be very glad to 
know that my suspicion is unfounded. I 'm 
wondering what my mother will say," Fred 
added dubiously. 

" Your suspish' is all right ; founded on a 
rock," replied Quimby, confidently. " Did n't 
you see ? He was on the very point of break- 
ing down. Your old clergyman's talk went 
deep, — plowed a tremendous subsoil furrow, — 
really got down to his conscience, if you call it 
that, when it 's the fear of exposure chiefly that 
makes a poor sinner anxious to confess a fault, 
and sorry he committed it. Not a first-class 
conscience, — hardly the genuine, fast-color, 
warranted-not-to-fade article, — but ' jes' better 
than none at all,' as the old negro woman said 
of her husband. He '11 own up yet." 

" I hope he will ! " Fred exclaimed fervently. 

" But I say, Melf ! " cried Quimby, looking 
around upon the little glen into which they 
had descended. " You did n't tell me you kept 
a small private paradise here ! A miniature Gar- 
den of Eden ! This brook, these wooded banks 
and overarching boughs, the sunshine flickering 
through, — it 's perfectly exquiz'! " 

" Glad you like it," said the young proprietor, 
well pleased. 

" Like it ! " echoed the guest. " That 's no 
word for it. Where 's Adam ? Seems to me 
he should be around somewhere. There 's the 
infant Cain now, — or is it Abel ? " 

" It 's the little deaf-mute I told you about," 
said Melverton. " Over there is the parsonage 
side of the brook." 

Quimby was regarding the child with intense 

"What an elf !" he exclaimed. 

" I '11 show him to you," said Melverton, 
leading the way along the streamlet's edge. 

At a spot where it gushed between two rocks, 
the child was stooping over a tiny water-wheel 
which the current kept whirling, while he 
dropped twigs and small sticks upon it, to see 



21 I 

them flung off with the flying drops. He was 
unconscious of the voices and the feet ap- 
proaching behind him, until the young men 
were quite near; then he turned with quick 
surprise and a bright laugh, as Fred crossed 
the brook and caught him up in his arms. 

" He 's the preciousest little old man that ever 
was ! " cried Fred, tossing him. " He knows 
his best friend ! " as the child put out a tiny 
hand and smoothed the young man's cheek. 
" But think of it, Quimby ! He can't hear a 
word, and never will in all his life ! " 

" ' The pity of it ! The pity of it ! ' " Quimby 
quoted, with a sincerity of feeling that betrayed 
a tender heart under all his gaiety. " Born so? " 

" No. Scarlet fever. A terrible calamity. 
He 's the only one who does n't realize it. 
You never saw a happier sprite. Curious, 
what compensations nature sometimes provides 
for our worst ills. Blessed himself, he 's a 
blessing to all around him. Keeps the little 
trickling springs of affection open in their 
hearts, you know. I believe he 's a source of 
deeper happiness to his mother than if he had 
all his five senses, like her other children." 

There were bright tears in the young man's 
fine eyes as he held the child on his shoulder, 
clasping with one hand the little wet feet, and 
with the other arm hugging him close to his 
handsome head and manly neck. 

" He must be a great care, though," said 
Quimby, looking into the child's laughing eyes, 
and studying their expression. " Mischievous, 
I fancy." 

" He 's in everything ! " Fred replied. " Of 
course it 's impossible to discipline him as you 
would another child. Conscientious — very — 
in his own way ; but his notions of right and 
wrong are sometimes strangely inverted, judged 
by our standards. If he wants a thing, he '11 
have it, if he can get it; the desire is justifica- 
tion enough, to his unsophisticated conscience. 
There 's no use keeping shoes and stockings on 
him ; he 's in the brook a dozen times a day." 

" Have they ever tried to teach him to 
speak by the modern methods of deaf-mute 
instruction ? " 

" Yes, but without much success. He won't 
even learn the printed or sign alphabet. The 

trouble is," said Fred, "he communicates too 
easily in a sign-language of his own. He is 
trying to tell us something now. What is it, 
Midget ? That 's the name we can't help giving 
him, it fits him so exactly." 

The child, carried in his arms along the 
brookside, looked back up the stream, making 
earnest gestures, a quick, whirling movement 
of his little hand being one of them. 

" Something about his water-wheel," Quimby 
observed, making a similar motion in return. 

Midget nodded with pleasure, and, slipping 
from Fred's arms, ran back to the spot where 
he had left his wheel. This he removed from 
its support of two stakes, held it up laughingly, 
and made signs that were easy to interpret. 

" He is afraid some accident may happen to 
it if he leaves it there," Fred remarked ; " and 
he is going to take it to the house. Let 's see 
if I can make him do an errand for me." 

As Midget came running back to him, Fred 
secured his attention, and, looking down into 
his bright little face, began to communicate 
with him in a way that surprised and amused 
Canton Quimby, who stood observing them, 
and endeavoring to read their language. 

" He understands," Melverton said, as the 
child, with a final affirmative response, started 
to run up the bank toward the old parsonage. 

" I understand, too,— some of your gestures, 
anyway," replied Quimby. " When you put 
up your hand, — like this, — you meant to ask 
for somebody as high as your necktie ; but when 
you put it behind your ears, with a motion of 
cutting your head off, that bothered yours truly." 

" I meant a person about that height, as you 
say, and with short hair. His mother is near 
Tracy's height, and his sister is almost as tall ; 
but they have long hair. There 's a young 
minister boarding in the house ; but he is taller 
than Tracy. Midget told me his brother was 
at home ; then I said, ' Find him, and bring 
him down here to see me.' 

" That 's nothing to the conversations his 
family can carry on with him," Fred went on, 
as they seated themselves on the bench by 
the brook. " It 's a very interesting family, as 
you will see ; for I am going to introduce you 
to them sometime, though not to-day." 

( To be continued. ) 

A prince of Persia had three sons, 
And each of diem had planned 

To be the greatest archer known 
In all that goodly land. 

The prince one day called unto him 
The eldest of the three. 
" Behold, my son ! Canst shoot the bird 
Tethered to yonder tree ? " 

" Ay, sire." Aladdin drew his bow 
With fiercely kindling eye, 
But paused before the arrow sped, 
Checked by his father's cry : 

"Stop! stop! my son. One moment wait! 

Tell me, what dost thou see ? " 
" I see tall rocks, the river wide, 

A vulture, and a tree — " 

"Go to!" the father cried in scorn — 
" Thou seest too much, by far. 
Dost think that, gazing on the moon, 
Thou canst bring down a star ? 

" Go, seek thy brother Ahmed now ; 
Bid him come here in haste." 
In Ahmed's willing hands, ere long, 
The royal bow was placed. 


" Bring down for me yon kingly bird, 

My son," the father said. 
" I will," the boy replied, and drew 

The arrow to its head. 

" Tell me, what dost thou see, my boy ? " 

Went forth the father's cry. 
" I see the palms, the purple hills, 

The forest, and the sky — " 

" Enough ! enough ! Thou seest too much. 
Bid Selim meet me here." 
And soon the youngest of his sons 
With hurrying steps drew near. 

" Selim, take thou these weapons here ; 
Kill yonder bird for me : 
But ere thine arrow leaves its bow, 
Tell me what thou dost see." 

" / see, my sire, a gleaming eye 
Burn in a vulture's head." 

" Shoot ! shoot ! " the enraptured father cried. 
" Shoot ! shoot ! " The arrow sped. 
A messenger rode forth in haste, 
And brought the vulture — dead ! 



j^^^^-^ ^ ' '^IlirK / lT was a lonely she P berd 

^itwkmf- ^'*Jft% -'^''/ffi ^WM/// K V ', lad > »'ho lolled upon 

Woodward Cloud. 


the lea, — 
Alack, how many fishes 
are a-swimming in the 
'T would seem a goodly company were 

I in yonder boat, 
But here are only grazing sheep, or else 
a gruesome goat ! 

" The sun comes up, the sun goes down, alike day after day ; 
I come and go with my slow sheep in just the selfsame way. 
I am tired of the hilltop, I am tired of the lea, 
And I would I were yon Fisherman a-skimming o'er the sea!" 

It was a lonely Fisherman, who drifted with his boat, — 
"Alack! this life is nothing more than fish, and row, and float; 
There 's plenty worth the living for if I were on the land, 
But here the world is all made up of water, salt, and sand. 

" There might be more variety if things were turned around, 
And sheep went scampering in the sea and fishes on dry ground; 
I am tired of the fishes, I am tired of the sea, 
And I would I were yon Shepherd lad, a-lolling on the lea ! " 

2I 4 



Then the Fisherman he shouldered his basket, rod, and hook, 

While the Shepherd sauntered surlily, a-slinging of his crook ; 

They nodded to each other, — a nod unreconciled, — 

And the great sun gave a parting look, then smiled, and smiled, and smiled ! 


Honani sat on the furthest point of *> ^ 
the mesa, looking over to the southwest. 
Behind him the pueblo rose in terraces 
of age-worn stone, small-windowed and many- 
stepped, glaring in the sunlight of an Arizona 
noon. Hundreds of feet below was the plain, 
dotted near by with fields of corn and melons 
shrunken for the want of water. Beyond, it 
stretched away in endless tawny waves of barren- 
ness until, a hundred miles away, it met the sky 
at the base of the mighty Nu-vat'-ikyan-obi, the 
"houses of the snows." Beyond this his sight 
could not go unless turned to the far-distant cloud 
specks in the pale blue sky — that sky which in the 
summer heat seemed to tremble in laughter and 
mock him ; but he knew that far beyond, on the 
other side of those snow-capped peaks, in a 
strange country, lay hidden the great sacred tur- 
quoise ring — blue like the sky which trembled 
above, and with hints in its depths of the great 
green waters the " grandfathers " sometimes 
whispered of. A man's handbreadth it was, 
fashioned cunningly from one perfect mass torn 
from the heavens, it was said, by the great Pa- 
wa'-quas, or wizards, in the old time, and he 
who could but touch it would have his wish ; 
and to him who wore it on his breast the future 
was as one long dream of pleasure, or of great 
deeds, if so he willed. 

This had been told him by old Masi, his 
great-uncle, before he died from that cruel fall 
down the dizzy cliff, while Honani brought him 
water and held his head upon his lap, — for 
they were fast friends, the old man and the 
young boy. There, far away in the south coun- 
try, the magic turquoise waited for its master, 
and Honani, the young Ho 1 -pi boy, alone knew 


\ v of its hiding-place. But the great dis- 
tance ; the strange country to be traveled 
over ; the danger from burning thirst 
amid the countless miles of fierce, hot sands ; 
the gnawing hunger when in the endless pine 
forest, — not to speak of terrible bears and 
lions, "Honan" and '.' To-ho'-a," — were obstacles 
which loomed higher than the towering peaks 
of the " houses of the snows." 

And still Honani looked and longed. If he 
could only come to this great talisman, how 
quickly would all those hardships which seemed 
to fill his life vanish into thin air ! Then would 
his old mother be well again, his father recover 
the flocks stolen by the wicked Navajos. Re- 
cover ? Why, he should have countless ponies 
and sheep and cattle, and he — Honani — 
would become a great captain, and would smite 
the Navajo, the Pah-ute, and the Apache, and 
all other enemies of his people, until his name 
would become a power and a blessing in his 
own land, and a sound of terror to his foes. 
Then would the grateful rains come in fullness, 
and where was now a desolation of famine would 
be a land of plenty. Again would the Ho'pi- 
tuh give thanks to " Those above," and the 
name of Ma'-sau-wah * would be strange in the 
houses of the " peaceful people." 

How many times he had dreamed these 
dreams he could not count ; and he might have 
gone on so dreaming had not chance sent Ne- 
vat'-i of the Eagle clan to taunt him. 

" Since how long, my brother, has the badger 
[honani) taken to the cliff tops, the eagle's 
rightful place ? Yours is down there, or over 
yonder"; and he pointed by chance toward 
the snow peaks. 



Vol. XXIII.— 28. 217 




Honani wakened from his dream of conquest, 
and, stung into loss of temper by the contemp- 
tuous tone of Ne-vat'-i, the pueblo bully, an- 
swered hotly : " Though I be but a badger, 
have a care lest I undermine the eagle's cliff, 
and put a ring around his leg ! " 

Small as was this pebble of thought, it started 
there and then an avalanche in Honani's mind 
to defeat and properly humiliate Ne-vat'-i, who, 
although skilful in all accomplishments of the 
Indian lad, was boastful and arrogant beyond 

Now, too, after the small stock of corn was 
gathered, would come those fiercely waged con- 
tests of skill and endurance so dear to the heart 
of the savage boy, making or marring him in 
the eyes of the people; and this year, Honani 
knew full well, in all the matches it was really 
Ne-vat'-i he would be pitted against; and Ne- 
vat'-i was not of pure Tusayan blood, — in truth, 
but half Navajo, — and everybody knew all the 
Navajos were wizards. Here was a new incen- 
tive : he would match magic against magic, 
and do it with the turquoise ring. 

That night he slept but little. Plan after plan 
came and went, but all of them required his 
telling his secret, and old Masi had warned him 
not to. His first plan of waiting until he was 
older and stronger seemed the only one, after 
all, — in two or three years, — but what might 
not happen in that time? He might be dead 
— the magic ring be found by another ! No ! 
There was but one thing to do — to go, and 
to go at once. 

With the first light of dawn he was about, 
looking cautiously for food to hide until he was 
read)' to start. All day he hung about the 
" grandfathers," asking as carelessly as he could 
questions about the way to the south country, 
his heart sinking many times at the stories they 
told of its terrors of thirst, hunger, and evil spir- 
its. Still he resolved to go on and reach the 
hiding-place ; after that, with the magic ring, 
he would have no fear. 

Slowly the sun sank behind the western mesas 
and was gone. Then all the land was bathed 
in the wondrous afterglow, more beautiful than 
any bright sunshine ; the flocks were driven up 
from the purple-shadowed plain to the corrals 
nestling on the cliff-side ; the twilight deepened 

* Underground templt 

and then was checked by the great full moon 
mounting the clear, still sky, and there was 
peace upon the land. 

Honani's plans (if plans they could be called) 
were to wait until the pueblo was asleep, for 
they were early people there, and then to steal 
away, making no noise. The dogs would bark, 
of course, but that was the way of Indian dogs 
— to sleep all day and bark all night. Slipping 
cautiously from his blanket-bed, and half whis- 
pering a " good-by " to his little sister lying near 
the door, he worked his way along in the deep 
shadows of the houses, past the openings of 
the ki-vas* of the snake and antelope priests, 
through a little open court, until he stood on 
the top of the " way of the high place," a dizzy 
trail or stone ladder, going down, down, almost 
straight into the black shadow cast by a huge 
pillar of rock which had separated from the 
mesa, standing like a giant sentinel guarding the 
ladder of stone between it and the parent cliff. 
It was enough to cause a white boy to grow sick 
with dizzy terror, but to Honani, living all his 
life upon the mesa, as he hung there between 
heaven and earth, the greatest fear was the 
dark shadow, because it was strange, and it 
seemed like going down in Shi'-pa-pu — the en- 
trance to the under- world. But down he went, 
and, coming from the shadow, stood on the ter- 
race beneath a flood of moonlight which turned 
the walls of the cliff to silver. 

When he reached the plain, six hundred feet 
below, he took from a clump of Rocio his bow 
and quiver, his throwing-stick shaped like a 
boomerang, the bag of food, and his earthen 
canteen. Then, having placed his prayer-sticks 
carefully, and addressing a fervent petition to 
" Those above," he turned his face to the 
" snow houses." 

Behind him the mesa, crowned by the pue- 
blo, towered against the sky like a huge dis- 
masted ship, and over all hung the wonder 
of the moon. 

All that night he walked on, steadily yet 
fearfully, until the highest peaks of Nu-vat'- 
ikyan-obi began to reflect palely the first faint 
flush of the approaching day, growing more 
and more splendid in glowing rose-tinted snow 
and deep-blue canons, as Ta'-wa, the great day- 
god, waked from his repose in the Ta-wa'-ki t 
s. t Sun-house. 



and stepped forward to carry the " shield of 
light " to his western house. 

Who can tell the story of Honani's journey, 
and tell it truly ? Only he can know of the 
weary way over that riot of color and desola- 
tion, volcano-rent and lava-ribbed; that hideous 
waterless waste of scarred and cinder-strewn 
grave — the " painted desert." And when he 
lost himself in the shadows of the mighty 
" houses of the snows," drinking of their icy 
springs, there still stretched before him for many 
a day's journey a trackless forest of giant pines, 
to that strange " jumping-off" place where the 
world sinks into a snarled mass of distorted 
mountains and canons, heaped and piled in 
titanic confusion two thousand feet sheer below 
the pine-trees on the brink. 

Through the mysterious and misleading re- 
cesses of the forest he passed, hungry unto 
death at times, almost overwhelmed by the la- 
bor to be done, while the pine branches against 
the sky waved him ever on and southward. At 
length he came to where it seemed he could 
almost look down to the very spot where lay 
the treasure, if old Masi had not been wrong 
in his many directions. The shape of certain 
mountains and canons convinced him he was 
right, and that the stream hundreds of feet 
below him ran past the hiding-place. Down 
past endless misshapen cedars, gnarled in the 
most fantastic distortion, plowing through the 
heavy soil, half tumbling the last fifty feet, until, 
utterly worn out, he reached the stream-bed. 
Then he went on, looking ever to his right, for 
on that side was the hiding-place of the great 
turquoise ring. So suddenly did he come to 
the very place told of by Masi, that he shrank 
back with surprise and superstitious fear. 

He had expected to find a ruined house or 
two, but before his startled eyes stretched a 
dead city. In a great bend of the stream, and 
forming a huge amphitheater, the cliffs rose 
glittering and dazzling white a hundred feet or 
more, when the stone changed to a soft gray- 
brown, and went up as high again. Just where 
the white and brown rock met at the deepest 
part of the bend, a colossal bite had been taken 
out of the face of the cliff, forming a great cave. 
In this space a people, now gone, leaving no 
record but these silent ruins, had built a most 

curious and remarkable structure, over five 
stories high, receding one above the other, 
until the upper story was far within the sha- 
dow of the cave. This was plainly the citadel, 
or great communal house; for on both sides, 
following the curve of the white cliff, were the 
windows and doorways of innumerable cave- 
dwellings, hollowed from the soft tufa of which 
it was composed. The central building might 
have been made only a few years ago by some 
of Honani's own people, so fresh and new it 
seemed ; but both its position and the caves 
told of a time long ago, when, without doubt, 
this was the home of a numerous and prosperous 
people. In the great bend of the stream had 
been their fields, and high up, secure from dan- 
gers, they had lived, loved, and died. 

Now all was dead. The fortress frowned 
down from its recess, sphinx-like, in the hot, 
vibrating air; the doors and windows looked, 
from the face of the white cliff, like eyes from 
out a skull ; and over all brooded a stillness as of 
death. Over Honani, crouching below, there 
came a feeling of awe born of fear — nameless, 
but very real. He was not old enough to have 
all the fear of a full-grown Indian in the pres- 
ence of anything connected with death ; but 
the thought that up into the great house hung 
against the cliff he must go, or forever re- 
nounce the turquoise ring, left him so weak 
and unnerved that the rustle of a lizard in 
the grass made him start and tremble. How 
long he remained gazing at that blinding city 
in the air, he did not know ; but the heat 
forced him to movement. Drawn on, yet 
afraid, he slowly, with many halts and starts, 
began to climb the sloping talus, or rubbish, at 
the foot of the cliff. 

To reach the great central mass of buildings 
he found, on examination, that even to him, 
rock-bred though he was, the face of the cliff 
just below the fortress was too hard to climb, 
and he was forced to approach it by picking his 
way along the terraces in front of the cave- 
buildings. It took him a long time to gain a 
point nearly below the great house ; but at last, 
with torn hands and feet, exhausted in strength, 
and panting, he drew himself up to the ledge at 
the base of the wall, and lay there trembling. 

Nearly at his hand was a very small door, 



opening into the lower story of the building. 
This door, he knew by his own home, did not 
mean the people who had used it were very small 
themselves, but made it harder for an enemy 
to get through in the face of resistance. The 
room into which he crawled was small and low- 
ceiled, having a hatchway into the room above, 
through which the rough ladder still projected. 

Old Masi had told him to go to the very 
topmost room. In this he would find a small 
stream of water falling into a little basin-like 
cavity in the floor next to the back wall, and 
there disappearing into a fissure of the rock. 
This was the water-supply in case of siege, and 
Honani thought how lucky that was, instead of 
having to carry water up hundreds of feet, as 
at home. In that pool, Masi said, lay the great 
turquoise. Scrambling up through successive 
hatchways, he passed rooms with all their con- 
tents for living, as when the builders used them. 
Why they had gone in such an evident hurry, 
Honani did not question : the magic ring was 
just beyond. In the dim light of the room up 
in the funnel of the cave it was hard to see, 
and he listened for the sound of water; but not 
the faintest murmur came to his ear. Groping 
along the entire back wall, he came to a small 
basin in the rock ; but it was dry, and lined with 
dust. Then his heart stood still, for the cavity 
was emptv. Some one had been before him. 
and now the ring was lost to him beyond all 

He lay down on the floor, his head hot and 
swirling, his heart heavy as lead. One expla- 
nation after another chased through his excited 
brain. Then he felt angry. Could the story of 
the magic ring be a dream — the vaporings of a 
weak old man ? And had he come so far, and 
suffered so much, to find a handful of dust shut 
in a cell built no one knows how long ago ? 

Masi must, of course, have been there. His 
description of the route and place was too 
vivid for any dream; but the turquoise! —that 
he must have imagined. Perhaps the fierce 
heat he, too, had just come through, had turned 
the old man's head. That was possible ; but 
he could not tell. 

Worn out and heavy with disappointment, 
Honani lay down where he was. not daring to 
eat of the morsel of dried beef he had left, and 

slept. It was so dark in the little room, and 
he had been so tired, he did not awaken until 
a ray of light, coming through the only window 
opening to the east, fell upon his face. His 
toilet was simply to put his hair from out his 
eyes and stand up, and he was "dressed." He 
lingeringly turned to leave the place of his great 
disappointment, and as he did so the nearly 
level beam of light fell full upon the little dry- 
pool, and catching the surface of a mass of rock 
projecting from the side, caused it to shine and 
sparkle like a thousand fireflies. It was so 
pretty, Honani decided to take the crystal along 
for his little sister Ta-la-on'-ci, in far-off Tusayan, 
whose eyes were nearly as bright. After a great 
deal of work, and by good use of his " throw- 
ing-stick " as a lever, it came away, a mass half 
as large as his head, pure white, and sparkling. 

Down the ladders, and through the same 
rooms, he went, his spirits very low, and when 
he crawled again through the little door he was 
blinded by the glitter and glare from the cliffs on 
both sides. The way back to the stream as he 
had come seemed so long, he decided to return 
more directly. Tying the white rock by a deer- 
skin thong about his neck, he cautiously let him- 
self down backward from the upper platform, 
feeling with his toes along the wall for a foothold. 

He had gone two thirds down when the 
treacherous tufa gave way beneath his weight, 
and down he fell, face to the wall, clutching at 
everything to save himself, until, bruised and 
cut, he lay at the bottom of the cliff, with no 
breath, and, for the moment, very little life left 
in him. Had he been other than an Indian boy, 
his fall would have cost him dear. As it was, 
he was sore and shaken, but not seriously hurt. 

The sun was very hot, and he started for the 
shade of the bushes along the stream. Then 
he noticed the white rock was gone from about 
his neck ; the thong was broken or cut by his 
fall. Not wishing to leave it, he went back, and 
easily found it by the buckskin thong still tied 
around it. Lifting it up with a jerk, fully half 
of it broke awav. He could have cried with 
vexation had he not been an Indian. It was 
hardly worth carrying away now; the white, glit- 
tering crystals were only a shell around a dirty, 
brown, greasy-feelingbundle, which he idly pulled 
apart, and then sat down in the glaring sun- 



light, staring speechless, but open-mouthed, for 
there in his hand, like a circlet carved from the 
sky, lay the Great Magic Turquoise Ring ! 

Honani could not understand. This was no 
dream. The old-time tradition of the wonder- 
ful magic ring was true. So Masi was vindi- 
cated, and — how cunningly had the old peo- 
ple hidden it, wrapping it in greased deerskin, 
then placing it in the pool where they knew 
this particular water would soon cover it with 
a coating of lime crystals; and the process had 
continued until it had become like a stony mass 
completely inclosing the deerskin. Then, 
through some calamity to the people, the secret 
was lost to all but a few. Masi had tried, no 
doubt, to get it ; but, with less luck than Honani, 
had not been attracted by what was to all ap- 
pearance only a lump of rock. Now he, Ho- 
nani the Ho'-pi, had it, and he would — 

He looked over his shoulder — there in the 
heat and light glared the dead city, the eye- 
like windows and doors still gazing at him 
darkly. Clutching his treasure to his breast, he 
ran from the haunted place, and did not stop 
until far on his way to the north. Of his 
journey back to Tusayan, how he advanced 
with the rains, how game came to his bow and 
throwing-stick, of his bathing in a spring in 
which he could not sink, how he crossed the 
swollen '■ Red Water," Pa-la'-bai-ya, and gained 
his mesa home, is a long story, and Honani 

said few words. It is told, however, that the 
harvest that year was plenty through the rains 
which came with Honani, and that in the 
games and contests which followed he de- 
feated all comers, even grown men skilled in 
bow-shooting, running, and jumping. 

Ne-vat'-i, the boaster, suffered such an igno- 
minious defeat in two trials that he was dressed 
like a girl until he could by some new exploit 
redeem himself. 

Then, afterward, when the land was rich in 
cattle and crops, a fair prize, the fierce Pah-ute 
came down from the north, like To-ho'-a, the 
lion, to ravage and kill; and all the fighting men 
went out against them. Honani led the young 
men, and stood side by side with the old war- 
captain. Then when the Pah-ute were driven 
to bay, and all killed but two, whom Honani 
had saved, he sent them back to their own 
country to tell his message : how he had 
" eaten up " all their fighting men, and would 
do the like to any others coming in war against 
the Ho-pi'-tuh — "the peaceful people." 

These things are to be heard if one or two 
of the oldest grandfathers, once the compan- 
ions of Honani, can be made to talk to those 
who, having had their " heads washed," * and 
being their brothers, can be trusted. But the 
grandfathers are old and wise, and words are 
like wild birds, which fly beyond your reach, 
and breed many more. 

' That is, who have received tribal baptism. 


By Anna M. Pratt. 

There was a little schoolma'am 

Who had this curious way 
Of drilling in subtraction 

On every stormy day. 

" Let 's all subtract unpleasant things 
Like doleful dumps and pain, 
And then," said she, " you '11 gladly see 
That pleasant things remain." 


"Oh, it 's so hard to leave the party, Victorine ! " 
"Oui, mais pense done comme e'e'tait beau a arriver ! " 





By Sarah Orne Jewett. 

[Begun in the December number.} 

etty and her fa- 
ther had taken 
along journey 
from London. 
They had been 
nearly all day 
in the train, 
after a break- 
fast by candle- 
light; and it 
was quite dark, 
except for the 
light of the full moon in a misty sky, as they 
drove up the long avenue at Danesly. Pagot 
was in great spirits; she was to go everywhere 
with Betty now, being used to the care of young 
ladies, and more being expected of this young 
lady than in the past. Pagot had been at 
Danesly before with the Duncans, and had 
many friends in the household. 

Mr. Leicester was walking across the fields 
by a path he well knew from the little station, 
with a friend and fellow guest whom they had 
met at Durham. This path was much shorter 
than the road, so that papa was sure of reach- 
ing the house first ; but Betty felt a little lonely, 
being tired and shy of meeting a great, bright 
houseful of people quite by herself, in case 
papa should loiter. But suddenly the carriage 
stopped, and the footman jumped down and 
opened the door. " My lady is walking down 
to meet you, miss," he said; "she 's just ahead 
of us, coming down the avenue." And Betty 
flew like a pigeon to meet her dear friend. 
The carriage drove on and left them together 
under the great trees, walking along together 
over the beautiful tracery of shadows. Sud- 
denly Lady Mary felt the warmth of Betty's 
love for her and her speechless happiness as 
she had not felt it before, and she stopped, 
looking so tall and charming, and put her 
Vol. XXIII.— 29. 

two arms round Betty, and hugged her to her 

" My dear little girl ! " she said for the second 
time; and then they walked on, and still Betty 
could not say anything for sheer joy. " Now 
I 'm going to tell you something quite in confi- 
dence," said the hostess of the great house, 
which showed its dim towers and scattered 
lights beyond the leafless trees. " I had been 
wishing to have you come to me, but I should 
not have thought this the best time for a visit ; 
later on, when the days will be longer, I shall 
be able to have much more time to myself. 
But an American friend of mine, Mr. Banfield, 
who is a friend of your papa's, I believe, wrote 
to ask if he might bring his young daughter, 
whom he had taken from school in New York, 
for a holiday. It seemed a difficult problem 
for the first moment," and Lady Mary gave a 
funny little laugh. " I did not know quite 
what to do with her just now, as I should with 
a grown person. And then I remembered that 
I might ask you to help me, Betty dear. You 
know that the Duncans always go for a Christ- 
mas visit to their cousins in Devon." 

" I was so glad to come," said Betty warmly ; 
" it was nicer than anything else." 

" I am a little afraid of young American 
girls, you understand," said Lady Mary gaily ; 
and then, taking a solemn tone : " Yes, you 
need n't laugh, Miss Betty ! But you know 
all about what they like, don't you ? and so I 
am sure we can make a bit of pleasure to- 
gether, and we '11 be fellow-hostesses, won't 
we ? We must find some time every day for a 
little talking over of things quite by ourselves. 
I 've put you next your father's rooms, and to- 
morrow Miss Banfield will be near by, and 
you 're to dine in my little morning-room to- 
night. I 'm so glad good old Pagot is with 
you ; she knows the house perfectly well. I 
hope you will soon feel at home. Why, this is 




almost like having a girl of my very own," said 
Lady Mary, wistfully, as they began to go up 
the great steps and into the hall, where the 
butler and other splendid personages of the 
household stood waiting. Lady Mary was a 
tall, slender figure in black, with a beautiful 
head ; and she carried herself with great spirit 
and grace. She had wrapped some black lace 
about her head and shoulders, and held it 
gathered with one hand at her throat. 

" I must fly to the drawing-room now, and 
then go to dress for dinner; so good night, 
darling," said this dear lady, whom Betty had 
always longed to be nearer to and to know 
better. " To-morrow you must tell me all 
about your summer in New England," she 
said, looking over her shoulder as she went one 
way and Betty another, with Pagot and a foot- 
man who carried the small luggage from the 
carriage. How good and sweet she had been 
to come to meet a young stranger who might 
feel lonely, and as if there were no place for 
her in the great strange house in the first min- 
ute of her arrival. And Betty Leicester quite 
longed to see Miss Banfield and to help her to a 
thousand pleasures at once for Lady Mary's sake. 

Somebody has said that there are only a 
very few kinds of people in the world, but that 
they are put into all sorts of places and condi- 
tions. The minute Betty Leicester looked at 
Edith Banfield next day she saw that she was 
a little like Mary Beck, her own friend and 
Tideshead neighbor. The first thought was 
one of pleasure, and the second was a fear that 
the new Becky would not have a good time at 
Danesly. It was the next morning after Betty's 
own arrival. That first evening she had her 
dinner alone, and then was reading and resting 
after her journey in Lady Mary's own little 
sitting-room, which was next her own room. 
When Pagot came up from her own hasty sup- 
per and " crack " with her friends to look after 
Betty, and to unpack, she had great tales to 
tell of the large and noble company assembled 
at Danesly House. " They 're dining in the 
great banquet hall itself," she said with pride. 
" Lady Mary looks a queen at the head of the 
table, with the French prince beside her and 
the great Earl of Seacliff at the other side," 

said Pagot, proudly. " I took a look from the 
old musicians' gallery, miss, as I came along, 
and it was a fine sight, indeed. Lady Mary's 
own maid, as I have known well these many 
years, was telling me the names of the strangers." 
Pagot was very proud of her own knowledge 
of fine people. 

Betty asked if it was far to the gallery ; and, 
finding that it was quite near the part of the 
house where they were, she went out with 
Pagot along the corridors with their long rows 
of doors, and into the musicians' gallery, where 
they found themselves at a delightful point of 
view. Danesly Castle had been built at dif- 
ferent times ; the banquet-hall itself was very 
old and stately, with a high, arched roof. 
There were beautiful old hangings and banners 
where the walls and roof met, and lower down 
were spread great tapestries. There was a 
huge fire blazing in the deep fire-place at the 
end, and screens before it ; the long table 
twinkled with candle-light, and the gay com- 
pany sat about it. Betty looked first for papa, 
and saw him sitting beside Lady Dimdale, who 
was a great friend of his; then she looked for 
Lady Mary, who was at the end between the 
two gentlemen of whom Pagot had spoken. 
She was still dressed in black lace, but with 
many diamonds sparkling at her throat, and 
she looked as sweet and spirited and self-pos- 
sessed as if there were no great entertainment 
at all. The men-servants in their handsome 
livery moved quickly to and fro, as if they were 
actors in a play. The people at the table were 
talking and laughing, and the whole scene was 
so pleasant, so gay and friendly, that Betty 
wished, for almost the first time, that she were 
grown up and dining late, to hear all the de- 
lightful talk. She and Pagot were like swal- 
low's high under the eaves of the great room. 
Papa looked really boyish, so many of the men 
were older than he. There were twenty at 
table ; and Pagot said, as Betty counted, that 
many others were expected the next day. You 
could imagine the great festivals of an older 
time as you looked down from the gallery. In 
the gallery itself there were quaint little heavy 
wooden stools for the musicians : the harpers 
and fiddlers and pipers who had played for so 
many generations of gay dancers, for whom 


the same lights had flickered, and over whose 
heads the old hangings had waved. You felt 
as if you were looking down at the past. Betty 
and Pagot closed the narrow door of the gallery 
softly behind them, and our friend went back 
to her own bedroom, where there was a nice 
fire, and nearly fell asleep before it, while Pagot 
was getting the last things unpacked and ready 
for the night. 

The next day at about nine o'clock Lady 
Mary came through her morning-room and 
tapped at the door. Betty was just ready and 
very glad to say good morning. The sun was 
shining, and she had been leaning out upon the 
great stone window-sill looking down the long 
slopes of the country into the wintry mists. 
Lady Mary looked out too, and took a long 
breath of the fresh, keen air. " It 's a good day 
for hunting," she said, " and for walking. I 'm 
going down to breakfast, because I planned 
for an idle day. I thought we might go down 
together if you were ready." 

Betty's heart was filled with gratitude ; it 
was so very kind of her hostess to remember 
that it would be difficult for the only girl in the 
great house-party to come to breakfast for the 
first time. They went along the corridor and 
down the great staircase, past the portraits and 
the marble busts and figures on the landings. 
There were two or three ladies in the great hall 
at the foot, with an air of being very early, and 
some gentlemen who were going fox-hunting ; 
and after Betty had spoken with Lady Dim- 
dale, whom she knew, they sauntered into the 
breakfast-room, where they found some other 
people ; and papa and Betty had a word to- 
gether and then sat down side by side to their 
muffins and their eggs and toast and marma- 
lade. It was not a bit like a Tideshead com- 
pany breakfast. Everybody jumped up if he 
wished for a plate, or for more jam, or a cut of 
cold game, which was on the sideboard with 
many other things. The company of servants 
had disappeared, and it was all as unceremo- 
nious as if the breakfasters were lunching out 
of doors. There was not a great tableful like 
that of the night before ; many of the guests 
were taking their tea and coffee in their own 

By the time breakfast was done, Betty had 

begun to forget herself as if she were quite at 
home. She stole an affectionate glance now 
and then at Lady Mary, and had fine bits of 
talk with her father, who had spent a charming 
evening and now told Betty something about 
it, and how glad he was to have her see their 
fellow-guests. When he went hurrying away 
to join the hunt, Betty was sure that she knew 
what to do with herself. It would take her a 
long time to see the huge old house and the 
picture-gallery, where there were some very fa- 
mous paintings, and the library, about which 
papa was always so enthusiastic. Lady Mary 
was to her more interesting than anybody else, 
and she wished especially to do something for 
Lady Mary. Aunt Barbara had helped her 
niece very much one day in Tideshead when 
she talked about her own experience in making 
visits and going much into company. " The 
best thing you can do," she said, " is to do 
everything you can to help your hostess. 
Don't wait to see what is going to be done for 
you, but try to help entertain your fellow-guests 
and to make the occasion pleasant, and you 
will be sure to enjoy yourself and to find your 
hostess wishing you to come again. Always 
do the things that will help your hostess." Our 
friend thought of this sage advice now, but it 
was at a moment when every one else was 
busy talking, and they were all going on to the 
great library except two or three late breakfast- 
ers who were still at the table. Aunt Barbara 
had also said that when there was nothing else 
to do, your plain duty was to entertain your- 
self; and, having a natural gift for this, Betty 
wandered off into a corner and found a new 
" Punch " and some of the American maga- 
zines on a little table close by the window-seat. 
After a while she happened to hear some one 
ask : " What time is Mr. Banfield coming ? " 

" By the eleven o'clock train," said Lady 
Mary. " I am just watching for the carriage 
that is to fetch him. Look ; you can see it 
first between the two oaks there to the left. It 
is an awkward time to get to a strange house, 
poor man ; but they were in the South and 
took a night train that is very slow. Mr. Ban- 
field's daughter is with him, and my dear friend 
Betty, who knows what American girls best 
like, is kindly going to help me entertain her." 




" Oh, really ! " said one of the ladies, looking 
up and smiling as if she had been wondering 
just what Betty was for, all alone in the grown- 
up house-party. " Really, that 's very nice. 
But I might have seen that you are Mr. Leices- 
ter's daughter. It was very stupid of me, my 
dear; you 're quite like him — oh, quite! " 

'■ I have seen you with the Duncans, have I 
not ? " asked some one else, with great interest. 
" Why, fancy ! " said this friendly person, who 
was named the Honorable Miss Northumber- 
land, a small, eager little lady in spite of her 
solemn great name, — " fancy 
an American too. I should have thought you 
quite an English girl.' 

" Oh, no, indeed," said Betty. " Indeed, 
I 'm quite American, except for living in 
England a very great deal." She was 
ready to go on and say much more, 
but she had been taught to say as 
little about herself as she possibly 
could, since general society cares 
little for knowledge that is given 
it too easily, especially about 
strangers and one's self 

" There 's the carriage 
now," said Lady Mary, 
as she went away to 
welcome the guests. 
" Poor souls ! they will 
like to get to their rooms 
as soon as possible," she 
said hospitably; but al- 
though the elder ladies 
did not stir, Betty deeply 
considered the situation, 
and then, with a hap- 
py impulse, hurried after 
her hostess. It was a 
long way about, through 
two or three rooms and 
the great hall to the en- 
trance; but Betty over- 
took Lady Mary just as 
she reached the great 

door, going forward in the most hospitable, 
charming way to meet the new-comers. She 
did not seem to have seen Betty at all. 

The famous lawyer and wit, Mr. Banfield, 
came quickly up the steps, and after him, more 

slowly, came his daughter, whom he seemed 
quite to forget. 

A footman was trying to take her wraps and 
traveling-bag, but she clung fast to them, and 
looked up apprehensively toward Lady Mary. 


Betty was very sympathetic, and was sure 
that it was a trying moment, and she ran down 
to meet Miss Banfield, and happened to be so 
fortunate as to catch her just as she was trip- 
ping over her dress upon the high stone step. 

i8 9 6.] 



Mr. Banfield himself was well known in London, 
and was a great favorite in society ; but at first 
sight his daughter's manners struck one as be- 
ing less interesting. She was a pretty girl, but 
she wore a pretentious look which was further 
borne out by very noticeable clothes — not at 
all the right things to travel in at that hour; 
but, as has long ago been said, Betty saw at 
once the likeness to her Tideshead friend and 
comrade, Mary Beck, and opened her heart to 
take the stranger in. It was impossible not 
to be reminded of the day when Mary Beck 
came to call in Tideshead, with her best hat 
and bird-of-paradise feather, and they both felt 
so awkward and miserable. 

" Did you have a very tiresome journey ? " 
Betty was asking as they reached the top of 
the steps at last; but Edith Banfield's reply 
was indistinct, and the next moment Lady 
Mary turned to greet her young guest cor- 
dially. Betty felt that she was a little dis- 
mayed, and was all the more eager to have 
the young compatriot's way made easy. 

" Did you have a tiresome journey ? " asked 
Lady Mary, in her turn ; but the reply was 
quite audible now. 

" Oh, yes," said Edith. " It was awfully 
cold — oh, awfully ! — and so smoky and hor- 
rid and dirty ! I thought we never should get 
here, with changing cars in horrid stations, and 
everything," she said, telling all about it. 

" Oh, that was too bad," said Betty, rushing 
to the rescue, while Lady Mary walked on 
with Mr. Banfield/ Edith Banfield talked on 
in an excited, persistent way to Betty, after 
having finally yielded up her bag to the foot- 
man, and looking after him somewhat anxiously. 
"It 's a splendid big house, is n't it?" she 
whispered ; " but awfully old-fashioned. I sup- 
pose there 's a new part where they live, is n't 
there ? Have you been here before ? Are 
you English ? " 

" I 'm Betty Leicester," said Betty, in an un- 
dertone. " No, I have n't been here before ; 
but I have known Lady Mary for a long time 
in London. I 'm an American, too." 

" You are n't, really ! " exclaimed Edith. 
" Why, you must have been over here a good 
many times, or something — " She cast a 
glance at Betty's plain woolen gear, and recog- 

nized the general comfortable appearance of 
the English school-girl. Edith herself was 
very fine in silk attire, with much fur trimming 
and a most expensive hat. " Well, I 'm aw- 
fully glad you 're here," she said, with a satis- 
fied sigh ; " you know all about it better than I 
do, and can tell me what to put on." 

" Oh, yes, indeed," said Betty, cheerfully ; 
" and there are lots of nice things to do. We 
can see the people, and then there are all the 
pictures and the great conservatories, and the 
stables and dogs and everything. I 've been 
waiting to see them with you ; and we can ride 
every day, if you like ; and papa says it 's a 
perfectly delightful country for walking." 

" I hate to walk," said Edith, frankly. 

" Oh, what a pity," lamented Betty, a good 
deal dashed. She was striving against a very 
present disappointment, but still the fact could 
not be overlooked that Edith Banfield looked 
like Mary Beck. Now, Mary also was apt 
to distrust all strangers and to take suspi- 
cious views of life, and she had little enthu- 
siasm ; but Betty knew and loved her loyalty 
and really good heart. She felt sometimes as 
if she tried to walk in tight shoes when 
" Becky's " opinions had to be considered, but 
Becky's world had grown wider month by 
month, and she loved her very much. Edith 
Banfield was very pretty; that was a comfort, 
and though Betty might never like her as she 
did Mary Beck, she meant more than ever to 
help her to have a good time. 

Lady Mary appeared again, having given 
Mr. Banfield into the young footman's charge. 
She looked at Sister Betty for an instant with 
an affectionate, amused little smile, and laid 
one hand on her shoulder as she talked for a 
minute pleasantly with the new guest. 

A maid appeared to take Edith to her room, 
and Lady Mary patted Betty's shoulder as 
they parted. They did not happen to have 
time for a word together again all day. 

By luncheon-time the two girls were very 
good friends, and Betty knew all about the 
new-comer ; and in spite of a succession of 
minor disappointments, the acquaintance prom- 
ised to be very pleasant. Poor Edith Banfield, 
like poor Betty, had no mother, and Edith had 
spent several years already at a large boarding- 




school. She was taking this journey by way 
of vacation, and was going back after the 
Christmas holidays. She was a New-Yorker, 
and she hated the country, and loved to stay in 
foreign hotels. This was the first time she had 
ever paid a visit in England, except to some 
American friends who had a villa on the 
Thames, which Edith had found quite dull. 
She had not been taught either to admire or to 
enjoy very much, which seemed to make her 
schooling count for but little so far ; but she 
adored her father and his brilliant wit in a most 
lovely way, and with this affection and pride 
Betty could warmly sympathize. Edith longed 
to please her father in every possible manner, 
and secretly confessed that she did not always 
succeed, in a way that touched Betty's heart. 
It was hard to know exactly how to please the 
busy man ; he was apt to show very mild in- 
terest in the new clothes which at present were 
her chief joy : perhaps she was always making 
the mistake of not so much trying to please 
him as to make him pleased with herself, which 
is quite a different thing. 

There was an anxious moment on Betty's 
part when Edith Banfield summoned her to 
decide upon what dress should be worn for the 
evening. Pagot, whom Betty had asked to go 
and help her new friend, was looking a little 
disapprovingly, and two or three fine French 
dresses were spread out for inspection. 

" Why, are n't you going to dress ? " asked 
Edith. " I was afraid you were all ready to go 
down, but I could n't think what to put on." 

" I 'm all dressed," said Betty, with surprise. 
" Oh, what lovely gowns ! But we" — she sud- 
denly foresaw a great disappointment — " we 
need n't go down yet, you know, Edith ; we 
are not out, and dinner is n't like luncheon 
here in England. We can go down afterward, 
if we like, and hear the songs, but we never go 
to dinner when it 's a great dinner like this. I 
think it is much better fun to stay away; at 
least, I always have thought so until last night, 
and then it did really look very pleasant," she 
frankly added. " Why, I 'm not sixteen, and 
you 're only a little past, you know." But 
there lay a grown-up young lady's evening 
gowns as if to confute all Betty's arguments. 

" How awfully stupid ! " said Edith, with 

great scorn. " Nursery tea for anybody like 
us ! " and she turned to look at Betty's dress, 
which was charming enough in its way, and 
made in very pretty girlish fashion. " I should 
think they 'd make you wear a white pinafore," 
said Edith, ungraciously; but Betty, who had 
been getting a little angry, thought this so 
funny that she laughed and felt much better. 

" I wear muslins for very best," she said se- 
renely. " Why, of course we '11 go down after 
dinner and stay a while before we say good- 
night ; they '11 be out before half-past nine, — I 
mean the ladies,— rand we '11 be there in the 
drawing-room. Oh, is n't that blue gown a 
beauty ! I wish I had put on my best muslin, 

" You look very suitable, Miss Betty," said 
Pagot, stiffly. Pagot was very old-fashioned, 
and Edith made a funny little face at Betty 
behind her back. 

The two girls had a delightful dinner to- 
gether in the morning-room next Betty's own, 
and Edith's good humor was quite restored. 
She had had a good day, on the whole, and 
the picture-galleries and conservatories had 
not failed to please by their splendors and de- 
lights. After they had finished their dessert, 
Betty, as a great surprise, offered the hospitali- 
ties of the musicians' gallery, and they sped 
along the corridors and up the stairs in great 
spirits, Betty leading the way. " Now, don't 
upset the little benches," she whispered, as she 
opened the narrow door out of the dark pas- 
sage, and presently their two heads were over 
the edge of the gallery. They leaned boldly 
out, for nobody would think of looking up. 

The great hall was even gayer and brighter 
than it had looked the night before. The 
lights and colors shone, there were new people 
at table, and much talk was going on. The 
butler and his men were more military than 
ever ; it was altogether a famous, much-dia- 
monded dinner company, and Lady Mary 
looked quite magnificent at the head. 

" It looks pretty," whispered Edith ; " but 
how dull it sounds ! I don't believe that they 
are having a bit of a good time. At home, 
you know, there 's such a noise at a party. 
What a splendid big room ! " 

" People never talk loud when they get to- 

i8 9 6; 


2 31 

gether in England," said Betty. " They never 
make that awful chatter that we do at home. 
Just four or five people who come to tea in 
Tideshead can make one another's ears ache. I 
could n't get used to it last summer; Aunt 
Barbara was almost the only tea-party person 
in Tideshead who did n't get screaming." 

" Oh, I do think it 's splendid ! " said Edith, 
wistfully. " I wish we were down there. I 
wish there was a little gallery lower down. 
There 's Lord Dunwater, who sat next me at 
luncheon. Who 's that next your father? " 

There was a little noise behind the eager 
girls, and they turned quickly. A tall boy had 
joined them, who seemed much disturbed at 
finding any one in the gallery, which seldom 
had a visitor. Edith stood up, and seemed an 
alarmingly tall and elegant young lady in the 
dim light. Betty, who was as tall, was nothing 
like so imposing to behold at that moment; but 
the new-comer turned to make his escape. 

" Don't go away," Betty begged, seeing his 
alarm, and wondering who he could be. 
" There 's plenty of room to look. Don't go." 
And thereupon the stranger came forward. 

He was a handsome fellow, dressed in Eton 
clothes. He was much confused, and said no- 
thing; and, after a look at the company below, 
during which the situation became more em- 
barrassing to all three, he was going away. 

" Are you staying in the house, too ? " asked 
Betty, timidly; it was so very awkward. 

'• I just came," said the boy, who now ap- 
peared to be a very nice fellow indeed. They 
had left the musicians' gallery, — nobody knew 
why, — and now stood outside in the corridor. 
" I just came," he repeated. " I walked over 
from the station across the fields. I 'm Lady 
Mary's nephew, you know. She 's not expect- 
ing me. I had my supper in the housekeep- 
er's room. I was going on a week's tramp in 
France with my old tutor, just to get rid of 
Christmas parties and things ; but he strained a 
knee at foot-ball, and we had to give it up, and 
so I came here for the holidays. There was 
nothing else to do," he explained ruefully. 
"What a lot of people my aunt 's got this year! " 

" It 's very nice," said Betty, cordially. 

'• It 's beastly slow, / think," said the boy. 
" I like it much better when my aunt and I 

have the place to ourselves. Oh, no ; that 's 
not what I mean!" he said, blushing crimson as 
both the girls laughed. " Only we have jolly 
good times by ourselves, you know ; no end 
of walks and rides ; and we fish if the water 's 
right. You ought to see my aunt cast a fly." 

" She 's perfectly lovely, is n't she ? " said 
Betty, in a tone which made them firm friends 
at once. " We 're going down to the draw- 
ing-room soon ; would n't you like to come ? " 

" Yes," said the boy, slowly. " It '11 be fun 
to surprise her. And I saw Lady Dimdale at 
dinner. I like Lady Dimdale awfully." 

"So does papa," said Betty; "oh, so very 
much! — next to Lady Mary and Mrs. Duncan." 

" You 're Betty Leicester, are n't you ? Oh, 
I know you now," said the boy, turning toward 
her with real friendliness. " I danced with 
you at the Duncans', at a party, just before I 
first went to Eton, — oh, ever so long ago! — you 
won't remember it ; and I 've seen you once 
besides, at their place in Warwickshire, you 
know. I 'm Warford, you know." 

" Why, of course," said Betty, with great 
pleasure. "It puzzled me; I could n't think 
at first, but you 've quite grown up since then. 
How we used to dance when we were little 
things ! Do you like it now ? " 

" No, I hate it," said Warford, coldly, and 
they all three laughed. Edith was walking 
alongside, feeling much left out of the conver- 
sation, though Warford had been stealing 
glances at her. 

" Oh, I am so sorry — I did n't think," Betty 
exclaimed in her politest manner. " Miss 
Edith Banfield, this is Lord Warford. I did n't 
mean to be rude, but you were a great surprise, 
were n't you, Warford ? " and they all laughed 
again, as young people will. Just then they 
reached the door of Lady Mary's morning- 
room ; the girls' dessert was still on the table, 
and, being properly invited, Warford began to 
eat the rest of the fruit. " One never gets 
quite enough grapes," said Warford, who was 
evidently suffering the constant hunger of a 
rapidly growing person. 

Edith Banfield certainly looked very pretty, 
both her companions thought so ; but they felt 
much more at home with each other. It 
seemed as if she were a great deal older than 



they, in her fine evening dress. At last they 
all started down the great staircase, and had 
just settled themselves in the drawing-room 
when the ladies began to come in. 

" Why, Warford, my dear! " said Lady Mary, 
with great delight, as he met her and kissed 
her twice, as if they were quite by themselves ; 
then he turned and spoke to Lady Dimdale, 
who wasjust behind, still keeping Lady Mary's 
left hand in his own. Warford looked taller 
and more manly than ever in the bright light, 
and he was recognized warmly by nearly all 
the ladies, being not only a fine fellow, but the 
heir of Danesly and great possessions besides, 
so that he stood for much that was interesting, 
even if he had not been interesting himself. 
Betty and Edith looked on with pleasure, and 
presently Lady Mary came toward them. 

" I am so glad that you came down," she 
said ; " and how nice of you to bring Warford ! 
He usually objects so much that I believe you 
have found some new way to make it easy. I 
suppose it is dull when he is by himself. Mr. 
Frame is here, and has promised to sing by and 
by. He and Lady Dimdale have practised a 
duet ; their voices are charming together. I 
hope that you will not go up until afterward." 

Betty, who had been sitting when Lady 
Mary came toward her, had risen at once to 
meet her, without thinking about it; but Edith 

Banfield still sat in her low chair, feeling stiff 
and uncomfortable, while Lady Mary did not 
find it easy to talk down at her or to think of 
anything to say. All at once it came to Edith's 
mind to follow Betty's example, and they all 
three stood together talking cheerfully until 
Lady Mary had to go to her other guests. 

" Is n't she lovely ! " said Edith, with all the 
ardor that Betty could wish. " I don't feel 
a bit afraid of her, as I thought I should." 

" She takes such dear trouble," said Betty, 
herself. " She never forgets anybody. Some 
grown persons behave as if you ought to be 
ashamed of not being older, and as if you were 
going to bore them if they did n't look out." 
At this moment Warford came back most loy- 
ally from the other side of the room, and pres- 
ently some gentlemen made their appearance, 
and the delightful singing began. Betty, who 
loved music, sat and listened like a quiet young 
robin in her red dress, and her father, who 
looked at her happy, dreaming face, was sure 
that there never had been a dearer girl in 
the world. Lady Mary looked at her too, and 
was really full of wonder, because in some way 
Betty had managed with simple friendliness to 
make her shy nephew quite forget himself, and 
to give some feeling of belongingness to Edith 
Banfield, who would have felt astray by herself 
in a strange English house. 

( To be concluded. ) 


By Laura E. Richards. 

Oh, Peterkin Pout and Gregory Grout, 

Are two little goblins black ! 
Full oft from my house I 've driven them out, 

But somehow they still come back. 
, They clamber up to the Baby's mouth, 

And pull the corners down ; 
They perch aloft on the Baby's brow, 

And twist it into a frown. 
And one says " Shall ! " and t' other says ' : Sha'n't ! " 

And one says " Must ! " and t' other says 
Oh, Peterkin Pout and Gregory Grout, 

I pray you now, from my house keep out ! 

But Samuel Smile and Lemuel Laugh 

Are two little fairies light : 
They 're always ready for fun and chaff, 

And sunshine is their delight. 
And when they creep into Baby's eyes, 

Why, there the sunbeams are : 
i\nd when they peep through her rosy lips, 

Her laughter rings near and far. 
And one says " Please ! " and t' other says 

And both together say " I love you ! " 
So, Lemuel Laugh and Samuel Smile, 

Come in, my dears, and tarry a while ! 


(A Story of the Year 30 A. D.) 

By William O. Stoddard. 

[Begun in the November number.] 

Chapter V. 


There were half a dozen men in the fore- 
most group of the new-comers, and others were 
not far behind them. All were in their best 
array, in honor of the wedding. They were 
strongly made, brawny, resolute-looking men, 
of the somewhat peculiar Galilean type, with 
faces bronzed by the sun and hands hardened 
by toil. There was no need for Lois to point 
out to Cyril the one of whom she had been 

Somewhat in advance of the rest walked one 
who was speaking to a vigorous, fiery-eyed 
man, who strode along at his side. Could this 
really be the heir of David and of Solomon, this 
simply dressed and quiet Galilean ? 

Whether or not Cyril had begun to form ex- 
pectations of a different kind, this was the man 
of whom Nathanael had spoken to Ben Nassur. 
He wore no crown, no sword, no jewels ; and 
Cyril had not supposed that he would. But 
there was about him no sign of soldiership, or 
leadership, or of authority. 

"He is no captain," thought Cyril, sadly; 
"he is no warrior; he seems no greater than 
other men ! " 

The boy had a sense of disappointment, so 
little cause for enthusiasm or hope did this man 
from Capernaum seem to bring with him. He 
should have been very different, if he were 
indeed to be a king. 

Nevertheless, Cyril could not turn his eyes 

away, although they failed to keep an accurate 

picture which he could afterward remember. 

He was sure, indeed, that this man, while no 

Vol. XXIII.— 30. =33 

taller than others, was of at least full height, 
broad-shouldered, muscular, with the firm, easy 
step and movement which belong to men of 
perfect form and unimpaired strength. He was 
as erect as a pine, and his sashed tunic and 
flowing robe, not different from others around 
him, befitted him well. Cyril took note of even 
his hair and beard ; but if the boy also tried to 
tell the color of the eyes, he could not do so, 
for his own sank before them, and he had a cu- 
rious sensation of being looked through rather 
than looked at ; and yet his heart beat high and 
fast for a moment. 

" Lois," he whispered. 

" Hush ! " she answered softly. " Mary is 
about to speak to him." 

The party from Capernaum had halted at 
the well, and Mary stood in front of her son, 
looking up at him with an expression that 
seemed to be partly doubt and partly expecta- 
tion. Before a word was said by either of 
them, Lois whispered to Cyril : 

"Look! just see how he loves her!" 

" Hush ! — listen," said Cyril — for at that 
moment the lips of Mary parted. 

Her heart was full of the grave disaster which 
threatened the wedding-feast, and behind her 
stood Hannah, the bridegroom's mother and 
Mary's friend and kinswoman. 

"They have no wine! " said Mary. 

" Why does she tell him ? " whispered Lois ; 
and something of the same idea was expressed 
in the answer of Jesus. A different spirit, 
nevertheless, was manifest in the kindly manner 
and smile with which he replied . " Woman, 
what have I to do with thee ? Mine hour is 
not yet come." 

Mary must have understood her son's mean- 
ing better than others did or could, for she at 




once turned to those who stood by the well. 
Among them were servants of Ben Nassur, and 
she said to these : 

"Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it." 

" Will he send them for wine ? " thought Lois. 

" I heard Raphael say there was none to be 

had in Cana. He may send even to Nazareth." 

And Cyril exclaimed aloud: " I '11 go with them." 


But at that moment the man Cyril felt so 
ready to obey pointed to the great jars by the 
well and said : 

" Fill the water-pots with water." 

There had been many ceremonial washings 
that day, as the guests of the wedding came and 
went, for not one had gone in without pausing 
by the well. The water-pots were therefore 

nearly empty, and it would require much draw- 
ing to fill them. 

" This must be done before he sends for the 
wine," said Lois. " His mother knows he has 

" Or she certainly would not have asked him 
to provide some for the feast," said Cyril, lean- 
ing over to lift his full bucket from the well. 

There was even 
some haste and a 
kind of excitement 
among those whose 
ready hands were 
drawing and pouring; 
and in a few minutes 
more the sunshine 
sparkled upon brim- 
ming fullness in the 
last of the six jars. 

" Now we are to 
go for the wine," said 

" They can't drink 
water at a wedding- 
feast," thought Lois. 
There was a startled 
look upon every face 
around her, as she 
glanced from one to 
another, for the next 
command was : 

" Draw out, now, 
and bear to the gov- 
ernor of the feast." 

Cyril could not ac- 
count for the tremor 
he felt as he dipped 
a pitcher into a water- 
pot, filled it, and lifted 
it, and stepped away 
toward the house. 
" Water, for the gov- 
he thought. " Water, to 
Does he mean to mock 

ernor of the feast ? ' 
Ben Nassur himself? 
the rabbi, because there is no wine ? " 

Still, he could hardly help looking into the 
pitcher in his hands. Just behind him was 
Lois. Suddenly she heard her brother ex- 
claim : '• It is wine ! Lois, my pitcher is full 
of wine ! Let me see yours." 

IS 9 6.] 



Down came her pitcher, and the two were 
placed side by side. 

" Oh, Cyril ! " said Lois, " it is wine ! Was 
that what Jesus meant ? " 

"It must be," said Cyril, in a low voice. Then, 
after a pause, " We must carry it in. Come ! " 

Behind them followed the line of servants. 
In a moment more the two tall, slender pitch- 
ers were deposited before Isaac Ben Nassur, 
at the head of the table. It was his duty, as 
ruler of the feast, to critically taste each new 
supply of refreshments provided, and now he 
quickly filled a drinking- vessel, for a hint of the 
threatened scarcity had reached him. 

Cyril and Lois, and behind them the ser- 
vants of the house, with Mary and Hannah 
and several others, gazed expectantly upon the 
face of the rabbi, waiting for his opinion. A 
little distance from him, at his right, pale and 
red by turns with anxiety, stood his son, the 
bridegroom. To him Ben Nassur turned, well 
pleased and radiant, but still somewhat judicial, 
as became the ruler of the feast, and remarked: 

" Every man, at the beginning, doth set 
forth good wine, and when they have well 
drunk, then that which is worse; but thou hast 
kept the good wine until now." 

So it was said by all. It was as if it had 
been recently pressed from the best grapes of 
the vintage. 

" Cyril ! " exclaimed Lois, as they hurried 
out, so awed that they were almost frightened, 
" it was water, and it became wine ! " 

" What will the people say ? " said Cyril. " I 
wish I dared to ask him if he is to be our 

Chapter VI. 


OW great was the won- 
der of the guests who 
drank the good wine 
at the marriage-feast 
when they learned that 
the pitchers must have 
been filled from the well 
in front of Ben Nassur's 
had not been among 
those who stood at the well. He had only 

The rabbi himself 

seen the wine brought to him in pitchers. 
But Mary and Hannah, the men who came 
with Jesus, the house-servants, and a few 
others, well knew the water had been changed 
into wine. 

Cyril and Lois had no opportunity to discuss 
the matter until late that evening. 

A sleeping-place, even for Lois, had to be 
found at the house of a neighbor ; and the best 
that could be done for Cyril was to give him 
the freedom of the flat roof of Isaac's own 

It was no hardship to sleep there, during a 
warm night. Cyril and his sister went up to 
the roof while yet the sounds of merriment, 
the music, and the singing, came up from the 
marriage-festival below. 

It was a beautiful night, and the roof was 
cool and quiet. 

Cyril came up first, and he stood at a cor- 
ner leaning over the stone parapet, when Lois 
joined him. 

" I cannot be mistaken," said Cyril, as if 
thinking aloud. " I poured the water into that 
jar, and I saw it was wine when I took it out 
in my pitcher, and carried it into the house to 
Ben Nassur. All the servants saw that there 
was water in the pitchers first, and afterward 
there was wine." 

" It is true. So it was in mine," said Lois, 
who had come to his side. " They all go to 
Capernaum to-morrow. Jesus of Nazareth 
means to live there. His mother will, too, for 
a while. Then she returns to her own house, 
at Nazareth. I wish I could live with her." 

" I would like to know what sort of work I 
can find to do while I am there," exclaimed 

" I know what I am going to do, I think," 
said Lois. " There is a woman named Abigail 
the tallith-maker, who lives there. Some of 
the women at the wedding told me she wants 
a girl who knows something of the trade to 
work for her. I learned needle-work while I 
was staying in Samaria." 

" Thou didst very good work," said Cyril. 
" There is more to do in Capernaum than there 
is here. I '11 find some work." 

" Most of the people are fishing-folk," said 
Lois. " The lake is full of fish." 




" Sometimes little is taken, they say," replied 
Cyril. " But I must try it. I long to see 
Jesus of Nazareth, and he will be there. What 
did he mean by the words he said to his mother 
— ' Mine hour is not yet come ' ? " 

" I do not know ; I did not understand them. 
I mean to be with her, part of the time, 
while she remains there," replied Lois. " I go 
to Capernaum, to-morrow, with her and her 

" I am glad," said Cyril, " I will go, too. 
Jesus is to stay in Cana, for a day or two, but 
I '11 come." 

Lois bade her brother good-night, and Cyril 
was alone upon the roof. 

" I wish father could see this man, Jesus of 
Nazareth," the boy said to himself. " Father 
is an experienced old soldier, and has been a 
captain. He would know what the people 
might expect of him." 

Ezra the Swordmaker had studied carefully, 
and had talked with his son about the ways 
and means for collecting, equipping, and arm- 
ing a force of patriotic Jews such as might, at 
some future day, drive out the Romans and de- 
stroy the power of Herod. 

At last Cyril went to sleep, but when he 
awoke, in the morning, his head was still full of 
the arrangements for his proposed journey from 
Cana to Capernaum. 

Lois also was making ready, and both Rabbi 
Isaac and his wife were entirely satisfied with 
the plans of their young relatives. There 
would be more room in the somewhat over- 
crowded house in Cana. As for the transfer 
of Mary's residence from Nazareth to Caper- 
naum, for a season, such temporary removals 
were not at all uncommon among the Jewish 

Only two days later, and while yet the wed- 
ding festivities continued in the house of Isaac, 
Cyril and Lois reached Capernaum. Their little 
baggage was carried by one donkey, while Lois 
rode another, and the hire of these animals 
made the first large draft upon the money Cyril 
had received from his father. 

The direct distance from Cana was onlv 
about twelve miles, but the road so wound 
among hills as to make it longer. Both brother 
and sister felt they had never before seen so 

beautiful a country, and when at last they came 
out in sight of Chinnereth, or the Sea of Gali- 
lee, they understood why the rabbis declared : 
" God made seven seas in the land of Canaan, 
but chose for himself only one — the Sea of 

The lake itself was beautiful, and the shores 
were lined with cities, larger or smaller, or with 
palaces whose grounds and gardens came down 
to the water's edge. Capernaum was a well- 
built and prosperous place at some distance 
from the shore, but there were no buildings 
along the beach near it ; only boat-wharves, 
here and there, little more than mere landing- 
places in the little bays which indented the 
long, curving shore-line. 

The region was a kind of fisherman's paradise ; 
and around it was also a rich farming country, 
with a climate so mild that even figs and grapes 
ripened during ten months of the year, and the 
fruits of temperate and tropical regions grew 
luxuriantly, side by side. The population was 
dense, and it was a continual marvel that the 
lake was not fished out, so numerous were the 
fishermen and so heavy were the catches. All 
the country around furnished them a market, and 
Cyril was assured that he would find enough 
to do, but that his wages would barely support 
him ; so that he was glad when Lois was 
kindly welcomed by Abigail the tallith-maker. 
This woman made other garments worn by the 
people among whom she lived, and it was of 
importance to her that the brother of her new 
assistant was a youth whose training under so 
good a smith as Ezra enabled him to mend 
her needles of all sizes. No doubt even 
the very smallest of them would seem both 
coarse and clumsy to the eyes of a modern 

Cyril, from the hour of his coming, was full of 
the idea which had brought him to Capernaum; 
and it may have been his eagerness to see and 
hear Jesus of Nazareth which brought him into 
acquaintance with Simon and Andrew, and 
several other men. Soon after his arrival he 
told Lois : 

" The people around the lake know more 
about Jesus than is known at Nazareth. He 
teaches and preaches here and all come to 
hear him. They believe about the turning of 




water into wine more readily than some of 
those who saw the water drawn and carried 
into the house." 

Lois could hardly have told how happy she 
was. She was not conscious that she had ever 
been at all afraid of so wise and learned a man 

would think of them whenever she saw Jesus or 
heard him teach. 

Cyril had thoughts and dreams of his own 
very different from hers, for his spirit was be- 
coming more and more warlike. He saw that 
Jesus had been making himself well known in 


as Rabbi Ben Nassur, but she felt more at ease 
now she was not near him. Besides, during 
several weeks she was often with Mary and 
her son. She sat at her work in the quiet 
house dreaming over the stories that were told 
her of the carpenter's son. Some of them went 
back to the very cradle of Jesus, and this, as 
Lois now knew, had been a manger in a cattle- 
stable, in Bethlehem of Judea. 

None of these stories had been written down, 
but Lois learned them all by heart, and she 

many places, and would soon be widely talked 
of. It was the right thing to do, if he was ever 
to raise an army among the Galileans. So 
Cyril considered it his own duty to seize upon 
every opportunity for studying, as his father 
had bidden him, the fortifications of the towns 
and cities near the lake, and for witnessing mil- 
itary parades and marches, and for examining 
weapons of all sorts and whatever else could be 
made use of in war — in the war of Jews against 
Romans, in which he hoped to be a soldier. 

( To be continued. ) 


By Christopher Valentine. 

Some years ago, Mr. Norman F. Chase, for- 
merly postmaster at Montrose, New York, des- 
patched two postal cards on a race around the 
world, one eastward and the other westward. 

The first, mailed to San Francisco, Califor- 
nia, thence embarked for Yokohama, Japan, 
crossed to Hong Kong, China, and then, by 
Bombay and the Suez Canal, proceeded to 
Paris and London, where it took steamer for 
New York. 

The other, going directly to London, Paris, 
and, by the Suez Canal, to Bombay, visited Hong 
Kong and Yokohama, was carried to San Fran- 
cisco, and thence came overland to Montrose. 

These long journeys were interesting, but a 
remarkable coincidence made the cards' race 

Both were mailed October 4, 1880; both 
were received back on the same day — January 
17, 1881. They each went around the world 
in exactly one hundred and five days. 

The postmarks upon the east-going read as 

follows: Montrose, October 4; London, Octo- 
ber 18; Paris, October 19; Alexandria, Octo- 
ber 27 ; Suez, October 27, 28 ; Sea Post Office, 
October 28 ; Bombay, November 9 ; Calcutta, 
November 12 ; Hong Kong, December 8; Yo- 
kohama, December 15; San Francisco, January 
9; Montrose, January 17. In a few cases dou- 
ble post-marks show times of arrival and depart- 
ure. Thus the card was in Yokohama from the 
15th to the 24th of December. 

The westward card traveled on the following 
schedule: Montrose, October 4 ; San Francisco 
(illegible), probably October 1 1 ; Yokohama, 
November 10, 11 ; Hong Kong, November 18; 
Bombay, December 13; Suez, December 30; 
Sea Post Office, December 30 ; Alexandria, 
December 30 ; Paris, January 5 ; London, Jan- 
uary 6; New York, January 15; Montrose, 
January 17. 

Young students of geography and astronomy 
will find it an interesting problem to compare 
the journeys of these two cards — remembering 


# *< ! 

■ *4. . . ■<. 



4S ^-^-j}.\ w"£:lS3/'/ -'J 



that, as one went westward and the other east- But no calculations are required to convince 
ward, and each card " crossed the line " one any reader that the return of the two cards on 
gained a day in dating, and the other lost it. the same day was a truly remarkable result. 



By James Otis. 

[Begun in the May number.} 



This unexpected addition to their family had 
a good effect on Carrots, because it made him 
more careful of his money, almost uncomfort- 
ably so, Teddy thought, when, having reached 
Mose Pearson's, the junior member of the firm 
questioned whether it would not be better to 
have no breakfast, in order to save time. 

" You see now we 've got Ikey on hand we '11 
have to be careful of the money ; else we sha'n't 
get that stand very soon." 

" We 're bound to eat, Carrots. If you 

want to be so awful careful of your money, 
you might give up smoking cigarettes," Teddy 

" Oh, I swore off buyin' any, yesterday. I 
don't smoke now 'less some fellow gives me one. 
Of course, you can't reckon I 'd refuse it ; but 
this soup will be ten cents gone, an' we 'd be 
jest as hungry by noon. Besides, we 've got to 
buy something for supper, 'cause we 're feedin' 
three now, you know." 

" We '11 get the breakfast, an' work enough 
harder to pay for it," Teddy replied, as he led 
the way into the restaurant ; and again did Car- 
rots's new ideas of economy appear, as he swal- 
lowed the soup almost at the risk of choking 
himself, in order to save a few moments. 




Who told you ? " 

He was the first boy on the street prepared 
to black boots, that morning, and no fellow 
ever worked more industriously, until nearly 
twelve o'clock, when he approached his part- 
ner in a mysterious manner, beckoning him to 
follow where they could converse without fear 
of being overheard. 

" Say, did you know lamb was awful good 
for sick people ? " Carrots asked with an air of 
great importance. 

" No ; I did n't know that 

" When old Miss Car- 
ter was sick, she said a 
little bit of lamb would 
do her a power of good, 
an' the boys chipped in 
an' bought some." 

" But it '11 come pretty 
high now, Carrots. You 
see it 's kinder out er 

" Pretty high, eh ? 
Well, what would you 
say if I got a bang-up 
good mess of lamb for 
five cents ? " 

"Why, I 'd say it 
either was n't lamb, or 
else the man what sold 
it did n't know what he 
was about." 

" Well, it 's lamb, an' 
I paid the reg'lar price 
for it, Teddy," Carrots 
said triumphantly, as he 
drew from his pocket a 
small package wrapped 
in brown paper, and, 
opening it, displayed 
to the astonished gaze 
of his companion two 
pickled lamb's tongues. 

" There, what do you think of that ? Talk 
'bout lamb for sick folks ! If it does any good 
I 'm goin' to have Ikey well as ever by to- 
morrow. I '11 make him eat all this before he 
goes to bed. You see it 's jest as cheap as 
anything we can get," he added. " He could 
n't stuff down more 'n six in a day to save his 
life, an' I reckon we can spend that much." 

Teddy was not positive whether lamb was 
good for the invalid, neither did he think the 
tongue Carrots had purchased would be bene- 
ficial ; but, as the latter had said, it would 
serve as food, and certainly was not a waste of 
money, and therefore he replied : 

'• I don't know as it '11 do him any good, old 
man, but it '11 keep him from bein' hungry, 

" Are you goin' down there this noon ? " 

" No ; I would n't dare to in the daytime. 



We shall have to wait till night. Have you 
seen anything of Skip ? " 

" Not a smitch. I reckon he got scared when 
he saw you talkin' to that policeman yesterday, 
an' I think he will give us a wide berth for a 

" I don't think you 're right. He has n't 
stopped tryin' to drive us out er town jest 'cause 




I told the officer ; but is waitin' till he can 
catch us where we don't know anybody. Keep 
your eye peeled for him." 

" I '11 be careful enough, you can be sure 
of that," Carrots replied. " I never 'd gone to 
the market for this lamb, if it had n't been that 
a couple of fellows I know were goin' down, an' 
they would n't let Skip pitch inter me." 

This day's business was not so large as the 
previous one, owing to the fact that both in the 
boot-blackening and news-selling departments 
of the concern there was active competition ; 
but both considered they had earned very good 
wages, and were in the best of humor when 
they started home with a sufficient addition to 
their larder to provide a generous meal for all 

" I '11 tell you what I 've been thinkin' of, 
Carrots," Teddy said as they walked slowly 
along. " Ikey is in a pretty bad way, an' it 
seems to me we ought ter do somethin' more 'n 
jest feed him up on lamb, if he ever expects 
to get out." 

" Want to try the bread an' milk ? " 

" No, I don't know anything 'bout that busi- 
ness ; but this is what I was kind er figgerin' on. 
It costs terrible to get a doctor, of course; but 
don't you s'pose we might make the same trade 
with one that we did with the lawyer ? If 
we 'd 'gree to give him a paper, an' black his 
boots, till the bill was paid, I don't reckon it 
would take long to fix Ikey in great shape." 

" That 's a good idee ! " Carrots replied en- 
thusiastically. " Why I '11 bet you could get 
any quantity of 'em at that rate. Say, there 's 
one up on Rivington street. I used to black 
his boots last year, when I worked 'round that 
way ; but have n't seen him since. He 's awful 
nice ; ain't so very old either, an' a good many 
times give me something extra when I got 
through with my job." 

" Suppose we go there to-night? " 

" All right ; I 'm with you ! We '11 fill Ikey 
up with this lamb, get him to bed, an' then 
take a sneak. We can be back in half an 
hour. Say, how would it do to carry him 
along with us ? " 

" I would n't like to do that, 'cause you see 
p'rhaps the doctor might not be willin', an' 
we 'd have dragged the poor feller 'round for 
Vol. XXIIL— 31. 

nothin'. Besides, if we should happen to meet 
Skip while he was along, it would be kind er 
hard lines to take care of a lame boy an' fight 
at the same time." 

" I never thought of that. I reckon I 'd bet- 
ter let you 'tend to things anyhow. You seem 
to know more 'n I do." 

The invalid welcomed them very cordially, 
as might have been expected from one who 
had been forced not only to remain inactive, 
but absolutely silent, during the many hours of 
their absence. 

In reply to Carrots's questions, he represented 
himself as being comparatively comfortable, 
and stated that, although the time had seemed 
long, he was more than glad to be there, rather 
than on the streets enduring such suffering as 
must necessarily be his while moving around. 

The first duty of the evening was to count 
the money, and it was learned that they had 
earned one dollar and twenty-six cents, exclu- 
sive of the amount spent for food procured on 
their way home. 

" That makes us pretty nigh five dollars," 
Teddy said as he placed these profits with the 
others. " If nothin' happens it won't be so very 
long before we '11 be in great shape for doin' 

Again Carrots had visions of the green news- 
stand and brass-covered boot-blacking outfit, 
and from this revery he was awakened when 
Teddy prepared the evening meal by unwrap- 
ping the papers in which the food had been 

This reminded Carrots of the scheme formed 
for the benefit of the invalid, and he handed the 
sheep's tongues to Ikey, as he said : 

" There, old man, I want you to fill yourself 
right up on that, 'cause Miss Carter said they 
was awful good for sick people, an' I 'low they '11 
straighten you out in pretty nigh less 'n no 
time ! " 

Then Carrots explained what they intended 
to do in regard to securing a doctor, and Ikey's 
eyes glistened as he thought of getting relief 
from his sufferings, which must have been great, 
judging from the expression he constantly wore. 

" I 'm 'fraid you can't do much," he said with 
a sigh. 

" It won't do any harm to try," Carrots re- 




plied, as he began to satisfy his own hunger; 
and when the meal was brought to a close, 
owing to the fact that neither of the partners 
could eat any more, Teddy led the way to the 
street again, the invalid expressing his earnest 
hope that the doctor might accede to their 

Fortunately for their purpose, upon arriving 
at the doctor's office, they found him at home 
and not busy. 

Singular as it may seem, he did not recognize 
Carrots until he had been told of the previous 
business connection, and even then appeared 
almost indifferent in regard to seeing his friend 

Teddy had supposed Master Carrots was to 
attend to this portion of the task, owing to his 
acquaintance with the physician; but instead 
of doing so, his young partner, after entering 
the office, stood first on one foot and then on 
the other, staring at the medical gentleman in a 
manner well calculated to make a nervous per- 
son uncomfortable. 

" Well, what can I do for you ? " the doctor 

Carrots looked around at Teddy as he said 
in a hoarse whisper : 

" You tell him, old man. You can fix things 
up better 'n I can." 

Master Thurston opened negotiations by pro- 
ceeding at once to the heart of the matter. 

" We want ter hire a doctor," he said. " You 
see, Ikey Cain 's got a lame leg, an' we have n't 
done anything for it yet except to give him 
some lamb, which I don't 'low is goin' to make 
him better very soon. Now what we thought 
'bout doin' was to get you to look out for him, 
an' let us pay in trade. I sell papers, an' Car- 
rots blacks boots. If you '11 'gree to fix Ikey 
up as he ought ter be, we '11 come here every 
mornin' till the bill 's paid." 

" Where is the boy ? " the doctor asked, look- 
ing amused rather than grave. 

" Down where we live." 

" Give me the address, and I will call there 
to-morrow morning." 

' ; Oh, you must n't do that ! " Carrots cried 
in alarm. " If you should go there in broad 
daylight and shin over that fence the folks in 
the shop would know jest where we live ! " 

The doctor was at a loss to understand the 
meaning of this remark, and Teddy explained 
by saying : 

" You see, we 've got a couple of boxes down 
here back of a store, an' the folks who own 'em 
don't know anything 'bout our livin' there. We 
can't go in till after dark, when the shop 's 
shut up, an' have to come out in the mornin' 
before it 's open." 

" I understand," the gentleman replied, with 
a smile. " Then it will be necessary to bring 
the boy here." 

" Could n't you fix him to-night ? " Carrots 

" I fancy so, unless there should be a call 
from some patient." 

"I s'pose we can get him over the fence; 
but it '11 hurt him a good bit," Teddy said, 

" We can rig that all right," Carrots replied, 
carelessly. " If he 's goin' to have his leg 
done up, he 's got to come out, an' we can't 
help it if it does hurt him"; and then turning 
to the doctor, he asked eagerly, " Say, how 
much you goin' to charge for doin' that ? " 

" What should you think it would be worth, 
or, in other words, how many shines would you 
give me ? We won't say anything about the 
newspapers, because I already have a young 
man who serves me with them." 

" We '11 try to come to your terms if we can," 
Carrots replied ; " an' you 're the one that 
ought ter set the figger." 

" What should you think would be a good 
price, if you were going to pay the money? " 

Carrots hesitated, looked around at Teddy, 
then again at the doctor, and finally said : 

" I reckon I 'd be willin' to go as high as 
twenty-five cents if he was fixed up in good 
shape, 'cause I know he '11 pay it back jest as 
soon as he gets to work. Course he can't do 
anything now." 

" Very well, bring your friend here whenever 
you please, and when I chance to be where 
you are working, I will call on you for one of 
the shines." 

Then the gentleman took up the book he 
had been reading, as a sign that there was no 
need to prolong the interview, and the boys 
went at full speed after the invalid. 

l8 9 6.] 



On being told that he would receive atten- 
tion from a regular doctor, Ikey announced 
his willingness to climb over the fence a dozen 
times if it should be necessary, and without de- 
lay the journey was begun. 

Fortunately the physician was still at home 
when they returned. 

He examined the injured member, took some- 
thing from his pocket which the others could 
not see at first, and, before the invalid was 
aware of his purpose, had passed the keen 
blade of a lancet through the swelling. 

Ikey felt faint with pain for an instant, and 
then looked wonderfully relieved, as the doctor 
said, soothingly : 

" There, my boy, you will be all right in a 
few days. I will bandage it, and you must be 
careful not to catch cold." 

Carrots watched the operation intently, and 
when the physician intimated that his services 
were at an end, he drew a long breath of re- 
lief as he said : 

" By jiminy ! If I could earn twenty-five 
cents as quick as that, it would n't take Teddy 
an' me long to buy that stand! " 

" You see, my boy, that medical men have 
to charge a very large amount of money for 
their services because it takes them so long to 
learn the business. Of course you would think 
I should get rich very rapidly if I had many 
such customers at twenty-five cents; but you 
can see that they are scarce to-night." 

" That 's a fact," Carrots replied thought- 
fully, as if this phase of the case was something 
which he had not previously understood, and, 
after gravely assuring the gentleman that " his 
face was good for a shine any time," Master 
Williams led the way out of the house. 

<; How do you feel, old man ? " Teddy 
asked, when they were on the sidewalk. 

" He hurt me a good bit with his knife ; but 
jest as soon 's that was over, it seemed like as if 
the pain had all gone. I reckon I '11 get well 
now, eh ? " 

" If you don't, there won't be any sense in 
puttin' out twenty-five cents ag'in on you," 
Carrots said, as if he should consider a contin- 
uation of Ikey's illness as a personal affront. 

The three arrived at home without having 

seen anything of their enemies, and in a short 
time were busily engaged discussing their future. 

" I '11 tell you what it is, Teddy, Ikey '11 
make an awful good clerk for us when we buy 
our stand, an' after we get him mended. He 
can sell papers or shine boots with the best 
of 'em, for I 've seen him work." 

Teddy suggested that they might not have a 
sufficient amount of business to warrant their 
hiring a clerk; but Carrots had his own ideas 
on the subject, and could not easily be per- 
suaded that an assistant would not be an abso- 
lute necessity when the green-painted establish- 
ment with its boot-blacking outfit was opened. 

The idea that he was to have an opportunity 
for working without being forced to run around 
the streets, pleased Master Cain wonderfully, 
and this, in addition to the relief from pain, 
served to put him in the best possible humor. 

He promised to repay the boys, not only the 
twenty-five cents which was to be given the 
doctor in the form of boot-polishing, but also 
for such provisions as he might eat while one 
of their household; and agreed, in case Teddy 
finally concluded it would be desirable to hire 
him as clerk, to do his work faithfully and 

" We '11 have the stand before two weeks go 
by, an' I reckon you '11 be right there helpin' 
us with it," Carrots said enthusiastically, as he 
once more prepared the bed for the invalid, 
and saw to it that there was food enough on 
hand to satisfy his wants during the coming 

It was later than their usual time for retiring 
when the boys finally lay down to sleep ; but, 
despite this fact, they were awake next morn- 
ing as early as on any previous occasion, and, 
before leaving, Carrots again cautioned Ikey 
against allowing his presence in the box to be 

" You need n't be worried," the invalid re- 
plied. " Now my leg does n't ache so bad, I can 
keep mighty still, no matter what happens. 
Yesterday I had to turn over pretty often to 
rest it, an' was 'fraid sometimes the folks would 
hear me." 

Then the boys clambered over the fence 
once more, and another day's work was begun. 

( To be continued.) 








By Gabrielle E. Jackson. 

Many years ago (so many that the writer's 
little daughter, when told how many, asked, 
" Mama, are you a hundred years old yet ? "), 
there lived in a pretty town on the banks of the 
Hudson River, not many miles from New 
York, a little girl named — well, we will call 
her Denise. That was not her real name, but 
some one who is very closely related to her 
now bears it, and so we will give it to her. 

She had neither brother nor sister, and was 
sometimes a little bit lonely, even though she 
had no end of pets, including dogs, kittens, rab- 
bits, birds, and a beautiful big goat named 
" Tan " to drive about in a little carriage. Tan 
loved her dearly, and, when not harnessed to 
his carriage, would follow her about like her 
big Newfoundland dog, " Sailor." No matter 
where Denise went, the goat " was sure to go," 
until people used to laugh and say, " Here 
come Tan and Denise," instead of" — Denise 
and Tan." 

The little girl loved her pets as dearly as 
they loved her, but the dream and desire of her 
life was to have a dear little pony to ride and 

drive, and — last but by no means least — to 
love ; for her fondness for horses amounted to 
a passion, and with them she was absolutely 
fearless. They, in turn, seemed to love and 
comprehend her to a wonderful degree; re- 
sponding to her voice and submitting to her 
caresses when they were often fractious and 
quite unruly with others. 

So it seemed a very gratifying ending to the 
long cherished wish, when, on her tenth birth- 
day, one bright October morning, her father 
said to her, " Many happy returns of the day, 
my pet ! Run to mama, and ask her to dress 
you for a walk. I 've a surprise at the end of 
it, for both you and her." 

" Anothersurprise!" exclaimed Denise. "Why, 
I thought I 'd seen all the surprises before break- 
fast! " 

"No, dear; I 've another. It 's a little 
thing, and if you don't like it you may tell it 
to just run away, as you 've no place for it." 

" Now, whatever can it be ? " thought De- 
nise, as she hurried up-stairs and, bursting into 
mama's room, cried, " Oh, mama, dress me 



quickly, please; for papa has a walk at the end 
of a surprise — and you 're not to know a thing 
about it, either ! " 

Never were curls made tidy so quickly, or 
clothes scrabbled on in such a hurry. Before 
papa had time to find hat, gloves, or cane, a 
very excited little girl stood before him crying : 
"If you don't start quickly, I just know my 
head will fly off like a bottle of soda-water 
that 's all fizz ! " 

About thirty minutes' walk along the 
shore of the beautiful river, whose waters 
seemed to dance and sparkle in sympathy 
with Denise as she pranced and skipped 
along, brought them to the village, where 
papa turned down a side street which led 
to a livery and boarding stable. Denise's 
heart began to beat so 
loudly that she felt sure 
it could be heard, and her 
brown eyes to sparkle as 
though some one had 
dropped a little diamond 
into each. 

" Oh me! " she whis- 
pered to herself. " I just 
know it 's a new carriage 
and set of harness for 
Tan ; and papa has asked 
Mr. Andrews to get it for 
me, because he heard me 
say that the old ones were 
getting very shabby for 
such a handsome goat." 

Tan, by the way, was 
an unusually large speci- 
men of his kind, measur- 
ing quite thirty-two inches 
at the shoulders, and 
boasting a head and pair 
of horns that were the 
admiration of all who saw 
them. He was named 
Tan because of the color 
of his hair, which was 

a bright tan and shone like satin when well 
brushed by Timothy, the coachman. So the 
prospect of a new harness and carriage for Tan 
was quite enough to set Denise's heart dancing. 

At last the stable was reached, and the first 

thing her eyes fell upon was a beautiful little 
phaeton with bright yellow wheels, and a shin- 
ing top that could be raised and lowered, "just 
like big folks's." 

In the bottom, for her feet to rest upon, was a 
little yellow Angora- wool rug, to match the color 
of the wheels. On the seat was a soft, white 
wool blanket, bound with yellow silk, and in one 
comer was fastened a big blanket-pin that was 
certainly intended to pin that blanket snugly 


around something's throat. Over the shining 
dashboard was folded a handsome fur robe, 
made of a leopard's skin, and trimmed all round 
the edges with wildcat's fur. 

The leopard's head looked very fierce, as it 




stared at Denise with big glass eyes; but I 
hardly think that a live leopard would have 
made much impression upon her, so speechless 
and dumb this fascinating sight had turned her. 

But when she went closer, and took out the 
exquisite little whip which stood in the whip- 
socket, and read her own initials on the gold 
band which held the dainty ivory handle to the 
snake-wood stick, her joy began to pour 
forth in a torrent of words which quite 
drowned the remark of old Timothy, who 
stood by, enjoying it all as though the 
whole thing had been planned for one 
of his own little Timothys at home. 

" Whist, darlint ! while I roon and fetch 
up the little hoorse that fits insoide," said 
he, as he disappeared through a side 

Presently Denise's ears heard 
a patter, patter! patter, patter! 
Looking behind her, 
she beheld the dearest, j 

darlingest little pony 
that anyone ever saw ! 

He was black as a 
crow from the tip of 
his saucy little nose to 
the end of the long 
silky tail that dragged 
on the ground behind 
him, excepting one lit- 
tle white moon just 
back of his right eye, 
which seemed to have 
been put there on pur- 
pose to kiss, it was so 
soft and round. 

For a moment De- 
nise did not move nor speak, and then, with a 
cry of delight which amply repaid her father for 
his long weeks of searching and planning for this 
perfect little turnout, she flung her arms around 
the pony's neck and laughed and cried and 
kissed until the poor little fellow was quite be- 
wildered, and did not know whether his new 
mistress was one to be desired or avoided. 

Presently, however, he decided that it was 
all right, and, with a happy little neigh, he 
thrust his soft nose into her hands, pressed his 
face close to hers, searched her pockets for 
sugar, and tried to say as plainly as a horse could: 

" This is my new little mistress, and as she 
seems to love me already, I 'm going to show 
her how much /can love her." 

Then Timothy produced the harness that 
fitted the " little hoorse " which " fitted in- 
soide," and pony was harnessed to the phaeton 
that had been made to his measure. 

No words can express the rapture of that 


drive. To hold the pretty reins and feel the 
prompt response given by the well-trained little 
animal; to watch his pranks and antics as he 
dashed along, apparently trying to show how 
graceful he could be in order to convince his 
new mistress that he left nothing to be de- 
sired — it really seemed too good to be true, 
and Denise feared it might all be a dream from 
which she would waken and find that pony and 
all had vanished ! 

The little feet fairly flew over the ground, 
and the drive home was quite the shortest she 
had ever known. 

i8 9 6.] 



Mama stood on the piazza, watching for the 
surprise to come ; and when she saw the hand- 
some pony and the carriage with her husband 
and her own little daughter sitting in it come 
dashing up the driveway, she was as much 
pleased as mothers usually are when they know 
that their little girls' dearest wishes are realized. 

The entire household had to be summoned 
to see and admire this pony, which was surely 
more wonderful than any pony that had ever 
lived ; and the charming little fellow was 
talked to and caressed and petted and fed with 
apples and sugar until he was in a very fair 
way to be made ill. 

" And now," said Denise, " what shall we 
name him, mama ? " 

" You must name him yourself, darling," an- 

swered mamma, " for he is all your very own, 
to love and care for." 

" Well," said Denise, in a tone which settled 
the matter beyond all question, " I 'm going 
to call him ' Ned Toodles ' : Ned because he 
is as black as old darky Ned who comes for 
the ashes, and Toodles because he is so little 
and round and roly-poly." 

So " Ned Toodles " was the name given to 
the dear little pony, who thenceforth figured 
very conspicuously in the life and pranks of his 
mistress, and caused no end of jealousy among 
the other pets. 

At last Denise was persuaded to let Ned be 
led away to his new quarters, Timothy exclaim- 
ing as he marched off with his small charge in 
tow, " Faith ! howiver am I to clane sooch a 

r '"'■"# 





schrap of a thing as this ? I '11 have to be 
hoontin' up a big box to sthand him on ! " 

And, sure enough, that was exactly what he 
had to do, and it took but a short time for the 
intelligent little animal to learn just what the 
box was for; as soon as his stall door was 
opened, he would march out, get upon the box, 
stand very still while he was curried, and then 
lift first one foot and then the other to have 
it cleaned and washed. 

Nothing gave Timothy greater satisfaction 
than to brush the beautiful coat until it shone 
like moleskin, and to comb the silky mane 
and tail until each particular hair seemed to 
stand out for very pride. 

Ned soon grew to love his little mistress very 
dearly, and to answer with a loud neigh the 
queer, piping whistle by which she always 
called to him. 

No pen can describe the delightful drives 
of the charming autumn days. Jack Frost 

seemed particularly gracious that year, and 
painted the trees more gorgeously than ever 
before. At least, it seemed so to Denise; but 
perhaps, seeing it all from her own little car- 
riage as she drove along in the golden sunshine, 
singing to Ned the little song of which he 
never seemed to tire, gave an added charm to 

This song was all about a " poor little robin " 
whose name was " Toodle-de-too," and Ned 
seemed to think that it had been composed es- 
pecially for him, and would invariably go very 
slowly as soon as Denise began to sing it, and 
would turn back one ear, as though to hear 

When the song ended he would give a funny 
little jump of approval, and then trot on again. 

And so the happy autumn days sped by, and 
Denise felt that there never had been so happy 
an introduction before as that which made her 
acquainted with Ned Toodles. 


Teresa A. Brown. 

While we are listening to the wild storms of 
winter howling around our comfortable homes, 
let us take a look at the home and life of the 
brave life-savers, who are guarding life and 
property along our coasts. 

Few people realize what these men have to 
endure, or how many heroic deeds could be 
gathered from the records of even one of 
these little stations. 

During the year ending in 1895 the disasters 
on our ocean and lake coasts numbered 675, 
with a passenger list of 5823; of these 5797 
were saved by the gallant keeper and his brave 
men; over 100 other persons were rescued from 
drowning at the different stations. 

We can judge from this report how efficient 
must be the corps of officers in this important 
department of the Government ; millions of dol- 

lars worth of property, in the shape of valuable 
cargoes, are yearly saved from the greedy ocean 
by the crews of the Life Saving Service. 

There are now on the American coasts 230 
stations properly equipped, and the cost to the 
Government is made good by the value of 
lives and money saved ; indeed, under the pre- 
sent system, there are fewer lives lost yearly on 
the whole coast-line than were formerly sacri- 
ficed on the Jersey coast alone in that time. 

The general superintendent of the Life Saving 
Service resides at Washington ; there are dis- 
trict superintendents who have charge of all 
stations in their district, which they must visit 
once in three months. Each district super- 
intendent must inspect the public property, and 
drill the various crews in all exercises, on the 
occasion of his visit of inspection. 

i8 9 6.] 



A journal of the daily doings at each station 
is forwarded weekly to the Department at 
Washington ; where wrecks occur, and lives or 
vessels are lost, a rigid investigation is made 
by the Department, with a view to detecting 
any possible neglect or carelessness on the part 
of the life-savers. 

The station itself is a two-story house built 
securely and solidly upon some good site along 
the beach ; it is comfortable and roomy, fur- 

with Old Ocean as their master; they must be 
able to handle a boat in the roughest weather, 
and to face all the dangers of the deep. 

Each man must undergo a strict medical ex- 
amination, and must bring to the station his 
certificate of good health ; and he is also 
obliged to sign an agreement to faithfully per- 
form all duties. 

The keeper receives a salary of $900 a year 
(up to 1892 it was but $700) ; he must be at 



nished by the Government, and has the boat- 
room and kitchen on the lower floor; a large 
bedroom for the keeper, another for the surf- 
men, and a store-room occupy the second story. 

The boat-room is large, and opens by great 
double doors upon the beach. It contains the 
life-boat and all the life-saving apparatus — 
always in perfect order and readiness. 

The crew consists of a keeper and six surf- 
men, though some stations number seven surf- 
men; these men are graduates from no naval 
college, but have served their apprenticeship 
Vol. XXIII.— 32. 

the station all the year round, but is allowed a 
month's leave of absence in summer if he gives 
up his pay. A surfman receives $65 a month, 
is at the station during eight months of the 
year, and has the privilege of leaving the sta- 
tion for twenty-four hours every two weeks, — 
but in lonely stations they generally remain 
for the active season, which begins September 
1, ending May 1 ; when a man leaves in May, 
he goes where he pleases, and if he does not 
return in September the keeper gets another 
man in his place for the next winter season. 




The keeper is held responsible for the condi- 
tion of everything connected with the station ; 
he must drill the men in their duties, divide the 
work evenly, and see that the men are orderly. 
No liquor is allowed on the premises ; drunk- 
enness or neglect of duty is punished by instant 
dismissal from the service ; the man who is de- 
tailed to cook must keep the kitchen in perfect 
order; and each has his share of the house- 
work to perform, for no women live at the 

The crew are numbered by the keeper from 
one to six, and at midnight preceding Septem- 
ber i the station goes into commission ; at that 
hour the keeper gives patrol equipments to two 
of the surfmen, and they start out on the first 
patrol, and the active season has fairly begun ; 
everything runs like clockwork after that, and 
as strict a discipline is maintained as on board 
a man-of-war. 

The patrol from sunset to sunrise is one of 
the most important duties in the service, and 
the most careful rules are laid down in regard 
to its performance. When stations are near 
together, as on dangerous coasts, the two 
patrolmen from Station " B," starting along 
the beach in opposite directions, walk until 
they meet patrolmen from " C " and " D," with 
whom they exchange checks, and return to 
their own station. At the end of a week the 
checks are returned to their proper stations, 
and this is kept up during the season, week 
after week. 

The keepers of lonely stations provide the 
surfmen with time-detectors. A time-detector is 
similar to a clock with a hinged cover, fastened 
by a lock — the key to which is retained by 
the keeper; beneath the cover a revolving plate 
supporting a paper dial is placed, and a die so 
arranged that when a patrol-key is inserted and 
turned in the clock a mark is made upon the 
paper dial recording the hour of striking. At 
the end of the " beat" is a post to which a key 
is affixed ; when the patrolman reaches this he 
winds the clock, — the dial-plate is marked; 
failure to be at the clock, without good and 
sufficient reason, is punished by dismissal. 

At midnight, at such a station, the keeper 
gives to the two patrolmen a clock contain- 
ing fresh dial-plates, and these two men going 

in opposite directions patrol the beach till four 
in the morning. When these return to the station, 
two other men take their places till sunrise. 
The next night, at sunset, two new men keep 
guard until eight in the evening, and at that hour 
their places are taken by two others, until mid- 
night. Then, returning to the station, the keeper 
is called, new dial-plates are inserted in the 
clocks, they are locked and given to two new 
patrolmen, who walk till four in the morning. 
So from sunset till sunrise our American coasts 
are patroled by solitary watchmen, on the look- 
out for vessels in danger. 

No weather is severe enough to daunt these 
brave men, and they trudge all night in rain, 
hail, wind, or snow, while we are comfortably 

The patrol duty at a station is so arranged 
that those men who have the long patrol one 
month are put on the short patrol the next ; the 
night-watches are divided into three watches 
of four hours each. 

On the discovery of a wreck by night, the 
patrolman burns a red signal light (with which 
he is always supplied) to notify those on the 
wreck that they have been seen, and that assist- 
ance will be rendered. 

He then hastens to the station, and the whole 
crew turns out ; the boat is run out on its car- 
riage, all apparatus is collected, and they pro- 
ceed to the part of the beach nearest the wreck. 
If practicable, the life-boat is launched, each 
man wearing a life-belt. They pull off to the 
wreck, and under the keeper's orders, which are 
promptly obeyed, the passengers are taken off 
to the beach, and the boat returns until all 
have been rescued. 

If the boat cannot be used on account of 
the surf and the weather, they proceed to 
rig the breeches-buoy line between the wreck 
and the shore. 

Coming abreast of the wreck, preparations 
are made to get a line to the vessel. Each man 
has his part of the work to do : the keeper, as- 
sisted by man No. i, has been loading the gun; 
he puts in it a projectile to which is fastened 
a strong braided line, six hundred yards long, 
and so coiled in a box that it may follow the 
shot without getting entangled. If their aim is 
well taken, the shot will pass over the wreck 




and the shot-line will fall across some part of 
the vessel. 

The crew on the wreck haul in this line, to 
which the life-savers have attached a pulley 
with a heavier rope through it ; both ends of 
this rope are kept on shore. 

Fastened to this pulley, or tail-block, is a 
tally-board with directions in French and Eng- 
lish, instructing the wrecked men how and where 
to make it fast. 

When it is fast on board the vessel, the 
life-savers fasten a hawser to one side of the 


whip-line and haul on the other, and the hawser 
is pulled out to the wreck ; this hawser also 
bears a tally-board, directing that it be made 
fast two feet above the whip-line. 

Now there is one endless small rope, and a 
large one three and a half inches in circum- 
ference, connecting the wreck with the shore. 

To this large rope is fastened the breeches- 
buoy (whose form is well known) by a snatch- 
block ; this block can be opened at one side 
and closed securely after it has been slipped 
over the hawser. 

Meantime, the surfmen have buried the sand- 
anchor deep in the sand, and tackles are hooked 
to this anchor and the hawser, which has been 
made taut. Then a crotch is set under it upon 
the beach, which raises it over eight feet from 
the ground. The breeches-buoy now hangs 
from the hawser by the snatch-block; to the 
slings by which the buoy is attached to the 
block, one side of the whip-line has been made 
fast, and the buoy is hauled off to the wreck ; 
a man gets in, putting a leg into each opening, 
and is hauled to shore through surf that often 
covers him ; he is taken out, and the breeches- 
)uoy travels to and fro over this aerial railway 
till all are rescued. 

Then the apparatus is recovered as far as 
possible, the beach-cart is drawn back to the 
station, the boat and gear are put in order, and 
he rescued ones are attended to. 

The daily routine of station life is broken 
only by this wrecking duty. 
On Mondays, flags and bedding must 
be aired, weather permitting, and all 
the regular household duties per- 
formed. On Tuesdays there is 
S boat practice ; this consists in haul- 
ing the boat-carriage to the beach, 
unloading, launching her, and pull- 
ing out through the surf — backing, 
turning, or doing just what the 
keeper commands, he steering the 
boat. After practice, the boat is put 
on the carriage, hauled back to the boat 
house, cleaned, and left in perfect order. 
Wednesday is signal-drill day. There is 
an international code of signals, composed 
of flags representing the different letters of the 
alphabet. Each surfmanhas a set of miniature 
flags, and he signals to the keeper, who answers 
them with his flags — so any man at the station 
can read a message from a wrecked ship. All 
the principal maritime nations have adopted 
this code, and as vessels are provided with flags, 
and books containing the key to different sig- 
nals, printed in many languages, communication 




between vessels and stations can be easily car- 
ried on, whatever the ship's nationality. 

Thursday is the day for drilling with beach 
apparatus. A pole planted in the sand repre- 
sents the mast of the wrecked ship. The beach 
apparatus, beach-cart, hawsers, guns, lines, 
blocks, and buoy are all run out in short time 
and all the manoeuvers gone through with, as 
if in actually rescuing a crew ; from the time 


the word l: action " is spoken by the keeper till 
the supposed rescued man is brought to the 
supposed beach, only six minutes have passed ! 
It seems almost incredible, but their training has 

made all the men models of promptness and 
obedience. After this drill the crew returns 
the beach apparatus to the station, leaving 
everything, as usual, in order. 

On Fridays, the entire crew is drilled in the 
resuscitation of apparently drowned persons. 

The crew recites the formula laid down for 
treatment of such cases, and then each man 
takes his turn in operating on another as though 
at work upon a pa- 
tient. If the method 
adopted by them were 
practised in every case 
of supposed drowning, 
no doubt lives would 
be oftener saved. 

The rescued man's 
clothing is loosened, 
his mouth and nostrils 
wiped thoroughly dry, 
and he is turned upon 
his face, with a tightly 
rolled wad of cloth- 
ing placed beneath 
the stomach, and the 
operator firmly presses 
the parts above that 
organ for a minute or 
so until all the water 
flows from the mouth. 
Then he is laid on his 
back, the wad being 
so placed under his 
back as to raise the 
pit of the stomach 
above the general level 
of the body. The 
operator then kneels 
or sits astride of the 
patient's hips, grasp- 
ing with his hand the 
small ribs, pressing 
with the balls of the 
thumbs on the pit of 
the stomach, and fi- 
nally letting gohis hold 
after a last push which forces the air out of the 
body; the ribs resume their normal position, 
which creates a partial vacuum in the lungs, air 
enters the empty space through the mouth and 

i8 9 6.; 




nostrils to fill it ; this process is repeated from 
four or five to fifteen times a minute, and often 
is kept up for four or five hours — until the pa- 
tient breathes naturally or all hope is given up. 
The clenching of hands and jaws, formerly 
considered signs of death, are now looked upon 
as evidence that some life remains ; in many cases 
at these stations the jaws have had to be pried 
open with the aid of some sort of lever. 

While one man is endeavoring to 
make the patient breathe, others are 
warming him with hot bricks, bottles 
of hot water, and hot flannel cloths 
applied to limbs, armpits, and the soles 
of the feet ; but none of their ministra- 
tions interfere with the first operator, 
who is restoring the breath to the pa- 
tient. If any life is left, this vigorous 
treatment generally brings it back. 

Saturday is general house-cleaning 
day; floors and windows are washed 
and cleaned, etc. On Sunday noth- 
ing but necessary housework is done. 
Patrol duty is performed every night in 
the active season, and of course is the 
hardest part of the life; at times the 
shore is cut away by violent storms 
and the men have to walk through 
the icy water, which is often up to their arm- 
pits; their health is constantly endangered, and 
now and then one loses his life. 

Several times there has been a bill before 
Congress to increase the pay of the surfmen, 
and it is to be hoped that such a bill will be 
passed ; both keepers and surfmen earn their 
paltry salaries by faithful and heroic service 
amid peril and hardship. 





- O .^rl«* TK^»ter Hill 




By Tudor Jenks. 

"Do you know how to get to grandpa's? — 
I went on New Year's day — 
You climb the hill where the pine-trees grow, 
And grandpa comes half-way. 

" He waits in the road for mama and me, 
And plays he 's a robber bold. 

Then, when I can't help laughing, 
How grandpa pretends to scold ! 

' He threatens me with his cane, and says 

' A kiss or your life, my dear ! ' 
And then with a regular bear-hug 
I wish him a Happy New Year ! " 


By Kate D. Wiggin. 

I am a little Santa Claus 
Who somehow got belated ; 

My reindeer did n't come in time, 
And so of course I waited. 

I found your chimneys plastered tight, 
Your stockings put away, 

I heard you talking of the gifts 
You had on Christmas Day; 

So will you please to take me in 
And keep me till November ? 

I 'd rather start Thanksgiving Day 
Than miss you next December ! 




We dare n't go a-hunting 
For fear of little men : 
Wee folk, good folk, 
Trooping all together ; 
Green jacket, red cap, 
And white owl's feather — 


At this bright turn o' the year, my hearers, the 
heart of your Jack holds two great wishes for you 
— his short wish (that 's for a joyful Christmas) ; 
and his long wish (that 's for a prosperous, happy 
New Year) ! 

By the way, this new year, 1896, begins on 
Wednesday ; and Wednesday, you know, — or 
perhaps you ought to know, — is named after Wo- 
den, a Saxon of old, famed for valor and might. 
The name means "mighty warrior," and Woden 
was the Saxon name of the Norse god of victory. 
Now, victory does not mean that somebody must 
■wish you happiness, and all the good things that 
bring it about and keep it. You must try for it — 
win it, the fruit of victory. 

There is a splendid sermon for you, my friends, 
in that one word, Victory ; but I shall not preach 
it. I understand too well your bright faces, your 
hearty, sympathetic nods, your fresh young valor, 
and the joy and work before you in 1896. 

Bless me ! Here comes a letter as full of cheer 
and summer-time as these days are of cheer and 
winter. You shall hear it : 

Chicago, III. 

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : My grandmother says 
that when she was a little girl she was especially fond of 
a certain little poem about elves or brownies. To this 
day she remembers the first stanza, — a copy of which I 
now send you, — but she has forgotten the rest, and also 
the author's name, if, indeed, she ever knew it. Now it 
seems to me, dear Mr. Jack, that you can help us. It 
is only natural that you should know all about it. In 
shady woods down among the grasses and mosses and 
wild flowers, Jack-in-the-Pulpit must hear a great 
deal of gossip of the elves and fairies. So do please tell 
me the rest of this song, that a bumble-bee may have 
hummed to you long ago. 

Here is the opening stanza : 

Up the airy mountain, 
Down the rushy glen, 

* See St. Nicholas for 

Yours truly, 

Eyre Powell. 

Yes, indeed, the bees do hum many a song to 
your Jack, my friend, but they have not happened 
to hum the lines you mention. They are apt, ra- 
ther, to drone in the laziest way a recital of busy 
deeds to come, and to top off with a confused, buz- 
zing account of sweet flowers and hidden blossoms 
that have helped them make their stores of honey. 
But that dear Little Schoolma'am of the Red School- 
house — she knew the pretty rhymes ; and she sang 
that first stanza to every listening thing in my 
meadow, as soon as it came to this pulpit. 

" Oh, yes," said she; " tell your friend and her 
grandmama that the lovely lines were written by 
one William Allingham. He was born at Bally- 
shannon in Ireland nearly seventy years ago, and 
he died in 1889. His poem, 'The Fairies,' opens 
with this stanza, and there are five more verses 
just as pretty." 

Dear me ! What a memory that wonderful little 
woman possesses ! She could repeat every one of 
those six stanzas right off! But perhaps many 
of you, my hearers, know them too. At all events, 
Eyre Powell and that good grandmother can now 
readily find the whole song, and enjoy it to their 
hearts' content. 


AND here is another letter — this time an answer 
to the question: "Who knows where corks come 
from ? " * 

Dear Jack : Since you asked about cork I have been 
looking up the subject and have found some very inter- 
esting facts. That traveled bird of yours who said it 
came from a kind of oak-tree was right : it is an ever- 
green oak that botanists call Querciis sitber. The tree 
is onlv about thirty feet high, and is principally culti- 
vated in Spain, although it also grows in Africa and in 
other parts of Southern Europe. When it is fifteen or 
twenty years old the first stripping of bark is made; only 
the outer layer is taken, the workers being very careful 
to leave the inner bark uninjured. This first layer is 
rough and woody, of no use save in tanning; but ten years 
later another has been formed of finer quality, and the 
quality continues to improve after each stripping. 

The bark is taken in midsummer ; two cuts are made 
around the trunk, one near the ground, the other just 
under the branches ; then, after making three or four long 
slits down the tree, the layer of cork is loosened by a 
wedge-shaped instrument and taken off in strips. These 
are scraped and cleaned on the outside and then heated 
and pressed flat. 

Until quite recently great difficulty was found in cut- 
ting out the corks, as most of the work was done by hand, 
and the knives were so quickly dulled; but now a ma- 
chine is in use which saves a great deal of that trouble. 

If any of your congregation will look at the rough bark 
of some of our native oaks, and try to cut in through the 
tough outer layer of corky wood, sometimes nearly two 
October, 1894, page 1048. 



inches thick, it will be easy enough for them to under- 
stand how another tree of the same genus can produce 
the thickest coating— - the cork of commerce. 

Isabella McC. Lemmon. 

a clever horse. 

Dear Jack : I want to tell you about something that 
I saw on the street the other clay. There was a cart with 
two horses standing in front of a store and the driver was 
inside. The wind was blowing very hard indeed, and it 
blew the blanket partly off one of the horses, The horse, 
I suppose, began to feel cold, so he reached his head around, 
and catching the coiner between his teeth pulled the 
blanket over himself again, and when the wind blew the 
cover back the horse cleverly pulled it up until the driver 
cune and fixed it ; but the driver, I am sorry to say, gave 
the horse a hard hit in the nose for biting at his cover. He 
did not know how clever his animal had been. 



Of all surprised good folk that ever were seen, 
it really seems that the dear Little Schoolma'am 
and her Committee are just now the most thor- 
oughly surprised. Have you heard about it ? Surely 
you boys and girls of the Red Schoolhouse must 
have caught news of it now and then. How the 

dear Little Schoolma'am had a committee of judges 
all ready, placidly awaiting orders. They are four 
sound-minded, high-principled individuals, who 
have not forgotten their own happy youth in the 
days when young folk were not, as now, the hard- 
est workers in the community ; and when they saw 
Mrs. Corbett's clever rhyme, "Marion's Adven- 
tures," with its preposterous spelling (at least the 
Little Schoolma'am said it was preposterous), and 
learned that the young folk were asked to send 
corrected versions, they smiled calmly, and re- 
marked, in effect : 

" We understand that you wish us to examine 
the versions sent, select the best according to the 
conditions given, and award the prizes. Well, 
the task set these young ST. NICHOLAS readers 
is interesting, demands cautious painstaking, and 
a little patience, yet certainly is not difficult in it- 
self. The rewards offered are moderate and sensi- 
ble, and if only the juvenile public take interest 
in a contest so temperately proposed, why, you '11 
find us at your service on almost any fine morning, 
ready to deal out our critical judgment, and those 
fifty brand-new dollar-bills, with much pleasure." 

Now mark you how the matter turned out ! 



The Little Schoolma'am's Committee, headed 
by the little lady herself, report as follows : 

More than ten thousand corrected copies of Mrs. 
Corbett's verses, "Marion's Adventures," printed 
in the October ST. NICHOLAS, have been received. 

It has been an exceedingly difficult task, as you 
may imagine, to select from so huge a mass of copies 
the twenty-four that are best entitled to the prizes 
offered. As the copies came pouring in by dozens, by 
scores, by hundreds, the committee, day after day, 
read and re-read, sifted and sorted — only to find, at 
last, that the twenty-four prizes could not possibly 
be made to "go round." In fact, there were far 
more than twenty-four versions that, in spelling, 
were absolutely correct. But, it will be remem- 
bered, there were other considerations that, by the 
terms of the contest, had to be taken into account, 
— the age of the sender, the neatness of the copy, 
penmanship, date of sending, etc. So, when at last 
the committee had placed together all the manu- 
scripts that were correct in spelling, they went over 
these carefully and repeatedly, noting and compar- 
ing with painstaking zeal, to find the twenty-four 
that seemed most worthy of prizes — under all the 
conditions of the contest. And here is the award : 

First Prize: Ten dollars. 

Marion Buck (age 16), Waterbury, Conn. 
Three Second Prizes : Five dollars each. 

Laura Hickox (12), Toledo, Ohio. 

Josiah Dwight Whitney (16), Beloit, Wis. 

Sophie Moeller (13), New York City. 
Vol. XXIII.— 33. 

Five Third Prizes: Two Dollars each. 
T. B. Stevenson, Jr. (11), Evansville, Ind. 
Alice Goddard Waldo (12), Dresden, Germany. 
Eleanor Walter Thomas (15), Columbia, S. C. 
Alice Lovett Carson (14), Brooklyn, N. Y. 
Caroline Louise Prichard (15), Tacoma, Wash. 

Fifteen Fourth Prizes: One Dollar each. 
Faith A. Davis (11) Mt. Vernon, N. Y. 
Mabel Edith Gross (12), St. Paul, Minn. 
Marion Reid Fenno (n), East Boston, Mass. 
Emily A. Dinwiddie (16), Greenwood Depot, Va. 
Lydia Ballou Almy (13), Norwich, Conn. 
Mary Stanley Hoague (15), Boston, Mass. 
Sadie Felker (15), Oshkosh, Wis. 
Jessie E. Gould (15), Everett, Mass. 
Sara F. Richards (14), Plainfield, N. J. 
Beatrice Sells (13), Salt Lake City, Utah. 
Marjory Morton Dexter (13), New Bedford, Mass. 
Helen Gore (13), Auburndale, Mass. 
Katherine Fleming Worcester (13), Burlington, Vt. 
Robert Vermilye Butler (13), Utica, N. Y. 
Walter Thompson Karcher (14), Philadelphia, Pa. 

But when this award was ratified by a final and 
unanimous vote, still there remained fifteen an- 
swers that were correct in spelling, and equal in 
all respects to several of those that had won fourth 
prizes. And then there were the English boys and 
girls ! How could the Little Schoolma'am have 
overlooked the fact that hundreds and hundreds of 



the young folk of Great Britain would enter into 
this competition with heartiest zest, — and, more- 
over, would prove very formidable competitors ! 

Some of the most beautiful and correct copies 
received came from across the ocean — and would 
not Uncle Sam's brand-new greenbacks be of ques- 
tionable value to the young folk who reckon their 
gains in pounds, shillings, and pence? 

Here was a quandary ; not enough prizes for the 
American winners, and in addition to them were 
a number of English lads and lassies equally de- 
serving of prizes! What was to be done? 

Well, just here the publishers of St. NICHOLAS 
generously came to the rescue of the dear Little 
Schoolma'am and her distracted Committee. 

'• Increase the number of fourth prizes," said they; 
"and award also a set of prizes in English money 
for the English boys and girls." 

No sooner said than done ; and the happy but 
tired Committee could rest from its labors. 

So, in addition to those named in the list already 
given, fourth prizes (of one dollar each) are 
awarded also to the following: 

Additional Prizes: One Dollar Each. 

Josephine Mairson (15), Harlford, Conn. 

Alice Louise Small (14), Saginaw, Mich. 

Laura Benet (11), Bethlehem, Pa. 

Marjorie M. Howard ( 14), West Newton, Mass. 

Bertha Moss (13), Elmira, N. Y. 

Maude A. Marshall (14), Minneapolis, Minn. 

M. Bell Dunnington (12), University of Virginia. 


Rose Fanny Michaels (10), Montreal, Canada. 
Xora Maynard (14), Stratford, Ontario. 
Louie G. Woodruff (13), Montreal, Canada. 
Gordon Howe Blackader (10), Montreal, Canada. 
Muriel L. Tatum (12), Montreal, Canada. 
Bess L. Campbell (io), Ottawa, Canada. 
Kenneth Miller (10), Montreal, Canada. 
Marie Parkes (15), Toronto, Canada. 

Also, in simple justice, there was awarded to our 
English cousins a set of prizes scaled to an equal 
value in pounds and shillings with those offered to 
American boys and girls in dollar bills. 

English Prizes. 

First Prize: Two Pounds Sterling. 

Mary Clarke (15), Birmingham, England. 
Two Second Prizes: One Pound Sterling each. 

Olive Underhill (II), Oxford, England. 

Beatrice Mildred Barlow (15), London, England. 
Three Third Prizes : Eight Shillings each. 

Ohven Marian Lloyd (14), Cheshire, England. 

Hilda De Angelis Johnson (15), Manchester, England. 

Frances Cornwallis (15), Eastbourne, England. 
Twelve Fourth Prizes: Four shillings each. 

Daisy Weekley (14), London, England. 

Margaret K. Bradley (14), London, England. 

Louise Kathleen Simonds (12J, Reading, England. 
Hilda Leonard Cook (12), Essex, England. 
Marion Evelyn Densham (15), Croydon, England. 
Edith Ellen Cantelo (15) Nottingham, England. 
Margery Darbyshire (15), Kantsford, Cheshire, Eng- 
Sylvia Heath (16), Birmingham, England. 
Dorothy Hewett (15), Ross, Herefordshire, England. 
Isabelle Hastings (13), Piccadilly, London. 
Margaret Muriel Gray (16), Helensburgh, Scotland. 
Evelyn Eleanor Smith (13), Dromahaire, Ireland. 

And now here are the verses themselves, in cor- 
rect form : 

Marion's Adventures. 

A little maid wanted to go to a ball. 

Said mamma: "You 're too young;" but she 

cried : " Not at all — 
I '11 wear my white frock, with red gloves, I 

suppose ; 
My blue shoes will be sweet with rose-colored bows, 
And there 's my new ring — 't is all that I 

I '11 be dressed in great style, and seem lovely 


To the garden she flew, saying : " No time to spare ; 
I must choose a nice flower to put in my hair." 
But the garden was bare, and Marion sighed. 
Neither berry nor bud in the borders could hide. 
She stood on the path for a minute, I ween, 
But a beet and a boulder alone could be seen. 
A scent from some leeks was borne on the gale. 
"I '11 go," she exclaimed; "to the wood and the 

So she went on her way, but she went forth in 

She caught a bad cold, she was hoarse and in 

pain ; 
She would climb on a bough : — when it broke 

with her weight, 
She regretted the feat, for she could n't walk 

She uttered a wail — " Oh ! my heel and my toe ! 
I 've injured my gait — I 've done it, I know!" 
A wry face she made, and great tears did she 

shed — 
Then homeward she limped, heart heavy as lead. 

As she hied to her room the clock pealed out 

And Marion fain would have dressed for the fete. 
But she fell in a faint. When her father was 

The sad tale, he turned pale: "If our horse 

was n't sold, 
And the weather so foul — ere an hour it will 

rain — 
I 'd call for the doctor to lessen her pain." 
So Marion wept — she had missed the gay ball, 
And she gave a deep groan that was heard in the 


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260 "marion's adventures." [Jan. 

Ob litthu nnajmL kiHJuntjjL to at> to cu (klU. 

ifaicL /mjcurn/ma. :. iLcuJm- (xsv /u,owna ; (mjf />At- enxjuL; flirt" at aJLL - 

iTUi liuXy Jnirvi ujilL ve/ /iuwd/ anthj /uxie, ectcii\AcL v-tnU^, 
Cltrd Wutc ',& ,mu n-mir Airway - 'C lb aXL tfiasC ir mud. 
a vL w, cUsAitcL jjtv omjoJC aCuIl , ovruJJ tewtu tcvtto, *mdj&ab. 

e/o wt aatuhmJ /tie* Msjjt, kovwurtia: no fame/ to Mvaht/ ) 
u >rnjua£ Cfiovze cu nrusju ticui&i/ to kaf irv nmAJ, rwMu 
QAJul Chs. aoAjd&rv uyah boUteJ 7 amAj TTiahjuovU JACUh&L. 
ihdiuKi utKKAi, yvfu \haAj w this WuOWtsh UouLoii huh. 
cJne/ Jytbvdb frrv tkic fuxtfu tch cu mnjimjuutL^ & <uxMns y 
oJhuot a tx.tfc curuL ou VfruLduO alow; ccuZob Of Mew. 
CV d-cen/' ptorn/ ixtrrw teiliA m&aA> i/vuvw oru tfw oudls 
*<y'lL cm> t /,-ht, vJMxurmeot, to Ehu w-ctrcb arte// vvfJ volts. 

Uo Anv uUfnJC on/ nzAJ owju. 7 Vu/C fi-tvu oot/rvf pnttv i/rv iucwtu. 
. o/nc ecuLaM ay iraxL ceuL , Arw> wvJ> hcrtAAt/ amxJb on. Wjouo-rv, 


There is not room to reproduce the prize copies have deserved praise that it is not possible to give 

in full, but a facsimile reproduction of a portion them all honorable mention. The Little School- 

of the three copies that won the first and sec- ma'am prints with pride the following Roll of Honor, 

ond American prizes is given on page 259, and containing a partial list of the names of the boys 

on this page you will find also a facsimile of a and girls whose copies most nearly approached those 

part of the best English copy, the work of Mary that won the prizes. Many of those named below 

Clarke, who won the prize of two pounds sterling, spelled as correctly as the winners, though they did 

Beautiful, indeed, are these copies ; and, to the not so well fulfil all the conditions of the contest, 

credit of all concerned, let it be added that there If space allowed, she would gladly add many other 

were several others that pressed closely upon these names to this list. Indeed, while heartily congrat- 

for the honor of first place in their respective lists, ulating the winners, the Little Schoolma'am and 

And how many of you must be disappointed ! the committee can warmly commend also a great 

Of those who failed to win there is such a host who majority of the losers. 


Elsie C. Hartshorne, Emily Mansfield Ferry, Alice L. ton, Mary Le Conte, Florence E. Turner, Abbie M. 

Davison, Christine Barker, Katherine S. Sewall, E. Mar- O'Neill, Miriam Berry Wood, Elizabeth Newton, Louise 

ion Grant, M. Esther Gill, Fredericka Loew, Florence Ashley Billings, Alice G. White, Cherry Wood, Annie 

Smith, Betsey Harnden, Horace P. Austin, AnnaKnowl- Iola Williams, Georgie A. Bowes, Lucetta G. Bechdolt, 




Julian Willard Helburn, Margaret Doane Gardiner, 
Alice E. Underwood, Pauline E. Durfee, Vernon D. 
Cook, Robin Moffatt MacRay, Anna B. Shank, Sue 
Leonard, Augusta Leonard, Winifred Eells Newberry, 
Ida C. Bailey, Fanny S. Gibson, Nelson G. Morton, Nora 
Maynard, Annie Lothrop Crawford, Sophia Margaret 
Hagarty, Clara E. Schauffler, Ethel L. Osgood, Prudence 
M. Holbrook, Emily De Wilt Gould, Neely Trowbridge, 
Warren Hale Horton, Lulie H. Stevenson, Arthur E. 
Hill, Janie W. Hewlett, Nellie E. Bastress, Clara P. 
Briggs, Herbert Merryweather, Ivy S. Wright, Rosa- 
mond Allen, Dorothy Cogswell Manning, Charles Rich- 
ard Selkirk, Lily Idler, May Idler, Helen Fruth Harlan, 
Margaret Adam, Katherine Gray Church, Henry Sey- 
mour Church, Mary S. Weston, Nellie Nevitt, Mary 
Cushing Dame, Lawrence A. Holmes, Virginia Beach, 
May Davis, Helen Seymour, Alan H. Lloyd, Edwin H. 
Van Etten, Robert M. Falkenau, Josephine Walsh, 
Marion W. Clark, Eleanor E. F. Servoss, Margaret 
Hincks, Gladys Painter, Thaddeus Joy, Margaret Waldo 
Higginson, Ethel Van S. Hogeboom, Caroline V. Scott, 
Rachel S. Haines, Helen Disbrow Moore, Laetitia N. 
Herr, Esther G. Mills, Sylvia K. Lee, Charlotte G. Tour- 
tellot, Mary Patterson Durham, Laura M. Hill, J. 
Warren T. Mason, Bertha Dean Royce, George Ro- 
berts, Jr., Percy Winans Bristol, Nurab McLoughlin, 
Mary Carolyn Smith, Agnes Louise Plant, Edith W. 
Davenport, Bessie May Fulmore, Pauline Wirt, Fred L. 
Pomeroy, Dorothy Hollick Narr, Everetta Kirkbride, 
Gertrude Rutherford, James L. Whitney, Edith Poor, 
Matie K. Griffith, Margaretta Moore Henszey, John 
Randall Dunn, George W. Kelley, Catherine Farley 
Wardwell, Isabel Georgina Bartlett, Susie M. Him- 
melwright, Arthur S. Williams, Hannah M. Fairlee, 
Isabel P. Rankin, Margaret Williams, Robert Rain Daw- 
son, Sadie A. Woolson, William H. Cook, Gertrude 
Schultz, Carrie L. McClune, Anita G. Clark, Paul C. 
Wild, Myra R. McLecd, Norman George Conner, Charles 
B. Finch, Althea A. Rowland, Anna G. Howard, Eliza- 
beth Coffin, Harold Day Foster, Helen Grace Thorburn, 
Margaret Josephine McGinnis, Luther Pflueger, Jessie 

Kellogg Henry, Grace D. Phillips, Maria Malvina Went- 
worth, Mary Waddill, Laura B. Shoemaker, Saidee Cor- 
nell Bartlett, Alice T. Olin, Margaret Elizabeth Richard- 
son, Charlotte Helen Lovell, Geoffrey Monk, Agnes Bell 
Austin, Lewis C. Hinkel, Gertrude Blatch, Beatrice Char- 
lotte Mead, Helen Wheeler, Edward W. Rothman, Mar- 
gery Whiting, Agatha Cassels, Alexandra Carrington, 
Catherine Leitch, Carita B. Archibald, Edith Winifred Ar- 
nold, Anna Blakeman Lewis, Cordelia Place, Hazel S. 
Day, Katherine Creekmore, Helen E. Royce, Helen Pool 
Richmond, Marjorie Beddington, Laura E. Crozer, Mar- 
garet I vie Dunlap, Margaret Warner Bright, Helen Louise 
Sargent, Mary Beardsley, Ruth Whittemore, Marion 
Stevenson, Ruth W. Price, George Melcher, Henry G. 
Tomlinson, Margaret Goddard, E. Helena Kriegsmann, 
Ella C. Davey, Arthur W. Combs, Marguerite Fiske, 
Dorothy Whiting, Henrietta Whitney, Mary Noel Mac- 
donald, Katie Marguerite Cantello, Alexander George 
Berry, Florence Holbrooke, Emilie 0. Merrick, Ruth 
Martin, Elsie B. Towell, Charlotte Bryson Taylor, Jessie 
Gibson, Jennie Spalding, Edwin I. Abbot, Muriel Beatrice 
Gerrard, Cecil B. Johnson, Harold Auchmuty, Winifred 
Sutcliffe, Alice A. Dodds, Frederick Butler Thurber, 
Eva I. Whittier, William F. Oakley, Margaret Wins- 
low, Annie Carlisle, Archibald Craigmile Duff, Fred L. 
Humphrey, Beatrice Pickett, Ethel Dodd, Jennie A. 
Walker, May F. Waldo, Julia Maria Bourland, Mabel 
Rainsford Haines, Helen Sandison, Mortimer Y. Ferris, 
John Neal Hodges, Clara D. Lauer, Katherine Arm- 
strong, Dorothy Ferriman, Henry Stanley Hillyer, Wal- 
ter J. Glenney, David U. Cory, C. W. Fisher, Jr., Lilian 
J. F. Barker, Narcia Callvert, Arthur Stanley Pease, 
Alice Birney Blackwell, Catherine Prindle, Margaret 
B. Mendell, Frederick Prime, Jr., Ruth W. Miller, 
Violet Mary Vernon, Lucy Ethel Cook, Margaret 
Fitzhugh Browne, Arthur Boulden, Henry Herbert 
Armstrong, Marie M. Buchanan, Thomas Ybarra, Mar- 
guerite De V. Mills, Mary Chandler Draper, Euphemia 
Van R. Waddington, Jessie G. Rathbun, Olive C. Lupton, 
Gordon Morse, Winifred C. Smith, Clara G. Nitchie, 
Wyllie Hart, Elinor Purser. 

Now about the words oftencst misspelled. One 
was fete. It came as fate, fete, feat, feet, feate, 
feite, fait, faite, fiat, fat, fete, fete, and in several 
other forms. Other stumbling-blocks were ween, 
borne, leeks, gale, regretted, and fain. Also ere, 
and you 're. 

The Little Schoolma'am expected a number of 
inquiries as to the spelling of the name "Marion," 
and many came. Both the spellings, Marion and 
Marian, were allowed, as both forms seem to be 
used for the feminine name. On this point, how- 
ever, a nice little note from one of the Canadian 
winners is worth quoting : 

Dear Little Schoolma'am : 

I beg to add that I am not entirely settled in my mind 
as to the propriety of changing the "o" in the proper 
name to " a." 

But as all my girl-friends whose names are " Marion " 

spell theirs with an "a"; and as F. Marion Crawford 
spells his with the other letter, I decided that one form 
was purely masculine and the other feminine; so, for 
safety's sake, I made the change. 

With most sincere sympathy for the reopening of 
school, I remain, Yours hopefully, 

Marie Parkes. 

And, by the way, it is a curious coincidence that 
the winner of the First American Prize was named 
Marion, and that the name appeared once more 
upon the American list and once on the English 
list of winners, besides several times upon the Roll 
of Honor — in each case spelled Marion. 

Many letters asked concerning the use of the 
dictionary and spelling-book, but, as announced 
in the October number, the Committee could not 
answer inquiries. All that need be said now is 
that no objection to the use of the dictionary or 



similar works of reference by a boy or girl, unaided 
otherwise, has caused the rejection of any answer. 

And now there is an admission to make — one 
that the Little Schoolma'am (who celebrates the 
Fourth of July patriotically) does not make joy- 
fully. American school-folk, please pay attention : 
So far as penmanship goes, the English and Cana- 
dian children excel Uncle Sam's boys and girls. 

So, young Americans, look to your penmanship ! 

The age-limit has been insisted upon, and no 
answer has been counted from any competitor less 
than ten or over sixteen years old. The oldest 
sender gallantly ruled herself out by admitting 
that she was thirty-three, and the youngest, who 
did not fail to confess he was only seven years old, 
sent a creditable answer. 

Next, you shall see extracts from some of the 
letters that have come with the answers. Little 
" Beth," from Alabama, beseeches the Little 
Schoolma'am in this wise: 

" Please say that it does n't count as having re- 
ceived assistance if your father just hints that there 
is a mistake. Mine did, but I sat down and puz- 
zled until I found it all by myself, and it was so 
little too. I've used up fifteen cents' worth of fools- 
cap paper, and tried just as hard as I could to get 
it right, but I don't want to cheat." 

A boy from Iowa says : " I think I can spell first- 
rate, but I can't write worth a cent. I have to 
hunt eggs and carry in wood, so you couldn't ex- 
pect me to write very nice." But his writing is far 
above the average for his age. 

One girl writes : " I almost know there will be no 
one younger than I who will try. I was ten a few 
days ago, and had to wait to write it till I was ten." 

A few letters — very few, fortunately — speak of 
disadvantages under which little puzzlers labored. 
One poor child is partially paralyzed; another 
would like to win a prize to help pay a doctor's bill 
— poor little chap ! One little girl "has not walked 
for three years " ; two are blind, and another two 
almost blind ; one pluck}' little fellow writes from 
the hospital, where he has been for five months, and 
has had his leg amputated ; and another writes 
propped up in bed recovering from a serious illness. 

How hard all these little folk have tried ! At 
times one can fairly hear the scratching of the pen, 
and see the little fist clutching the holder ! 

More cheerful letters are, happily, more plentiful. 
"I have enjoyed this poem, and Mama and I 
have had many laughs over poor Marion ! " says 
little Mabel. "I have to thank you heartily for 
providing such an instructive as well as amusing 
study," a Boston mother writes; and this pleasing 
sentiment is shared by a brisk ten-year-old, who 
says : " I do despise spelling and have worked hard 
on this. Anyway, I am glad I did it, for it is better 
than ever so many spelling lessons ! " 

Very creditable pieces of work come from an In- 
dian girl; a little Swiss girl, who says: "I take 
your magazine, though I am not a compatriole " ; 
a Dutch girl who writes from Haarlem ; a bright 

twelve-year-old, whose well-spelled answer has trav- 
eled all the way from Trebizond, Turkey; an almost 
equally accurate boy of the same age, whose answer 
started from Assioot, Egypt. 

The copies came, indeed, from many countries. 
There were hundreds from Canada and Great 
Britain, and fair numbers from France, Holland, 
Germany, Austria, Italy, Switzerland, and Mexico. 
Of all the boys and girls in Spain one little maid 
had the fortitude to enter the lists. 

The first envelope opened was posted in New 
York on September 25 ; another was posted in 
Trebizond, Turkey, early in October ; and the last 
came from Brazil, dated October 19th. 

Several copies were illustrated — some excel- 
lently, considering the ages of the young artists. 
One of the versions was written on paper sprinkled 
with violets in water-colors. Two others enclosed 
four-leaved clovers as an earnest of good-luck — 
which will doubtless come to the senders next 
time. Two, again, came from Jamaica from the 
grandchildren of Nathaniel Hawthorne, and two 
were from Concord from the grandchildren of 
Emerson. A bright little countess wrote from 
Vienna, and a countess mother signed a certifica- 
tion under the republican flag of France. An 
earl's crest sealed an envelope from Ireland, but, 
best of all, the great majority may be said to re- 
present nature's little noblemen and noblewomen 
of the world in general. 

So the copies came from far and near, North and 
South, East and West, and hardly one but deserved 

One bright young contributor sent this clever bit 
of verse, with its rather reckless rhyming : 

Hoxev Grove, Texas. 
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit : 
Long life and good health to the Little Schoolma'am, 
Whose kind heart suggeeted the beautiful plan 
By which your young readers are given a chance 
Their purses to fill, and their wits to enhance. 
As the Schoolma'am herself was a little girl once, 
I am sure she remembers how quickly the month's 
Allowance is spent. And as Christmas draws nigh 
How "close" we must be, and how hard we must try 
To save up enough to buy Grandpa a cane, 
Little Brother a ball, and Papa a watch-chain. 
Though I may not receive any prize, it is true, 
I '11 rejoice with the bright lads and lassies that do. 
Your constant reader, GEORGIA KENDALL. 

The Committee is confident that Georgia Ken- 
dall's closing lines express the sentiments of all the 

In conclusion, the Little Schoolma'am thanks 
you all most heartily for your painstaking efforts; 
and she hopes that now you will, after the manner 
of the boys who lose a match-game, give three 
hearty cheers for the winners ! 


Cid. 3. Clara. 4. Diamond. 5. Drown. 

Diamond, i. D. 
6. Ann. 7. D. 

Double Acrostic. Primals, California; Finals, Sacramento. 
Cross-words: 1. Cross. 2. Alpha. 3. Lyric. 4. Inter. 5. Flora. 

6. Odium. 7. Raise. 8. Nisan. 9. Inert. 10. Anglo. 
Riddle. Mint. 

Zigzag. City of the Straits. Cross-words: 1. Carp. 2. Nigh. 
3. Iota. 4. Dray. 5. Doom. 6. Afar. 7. Troy. 8. Thin. 9. 
Apes. 10. Less. 11. Dote. 12. Eros. 13. Adze. 14. Mile. 
15. Rite. 16. Mars. 

Diagonal. De Lesseps. Crosswords: 1. Delicious. 2. Decep- 
tive. 3. Melodious. 4. Timepiece. 5. Necessary. 6. Profusion. 

7. Phenomena. 8. Amidships. 9. Weariness. 
Illustrated Central Acrostic. Clive. 1. Ya-C-ht. 2. Pi- 

L-ot. 3. Sn-I-pe. 4. Ra-V-en. 5. Sh-E-11. 

Rhyming Blanks. Hound, sound, around, ground, mound, 
bound, found, pound, wound. 

Numerical Enigma. 

An idler is a watch that wants both hands; 
As useless if it goes as if it stands. 

Delicate Surgery, i. Leg-ally. 2. T-rib-une. 


3. Courts-hip. 
-thy. 8. Clin- 

Arm-ada. 5. Knee-ling. 6. Ba-skin-g. 
chin-g. 9. El-lip-se. 

Diamonds Connected by a Square. 
Tench. 4. Denoted. 5. Actor. 6. Her. 
Men. 3. Melon. 4. Related. 5. Noted. 

1. Aided. 2. Irene. 3. Debut. 4. Enure. 

2. Rat. 3. Repay. 4. Tapered. 5. Tares. 6. Yes. 7. D. 
1. T. 2. Fad. 3. Friar. 4. Tainted. 5. Dated. 6. Red. 7 

. D. 2. Tea. 3 
D. II. 1. R. 2 

Ned. 7. D. Ill 

Deter. IV. 1. T. 



To OUR Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 15th, from M. McG. — Paul Reese — 
Florence and Flossie — G. B. Dyer — Clive — W. L. — -Paul Rowley — "Tod and Yam" — Mabel and Henri — "Jersey Quartette" — 
"Shrimp " — " Edgewater Two " — L. O. E. — " Two Little Brothers" — Josephine Sherwood — " Knott Innit" — Helen C. McCleary — 
H. G E. and A. E.— Ella and Co.— " Sand Crabs"— Dee and Co.— " The Proud Pair " — Donald L. and Isabel H. Noble — Nessie and 
Freddie — Effie K. Talboys — "FourWceks of Kane" — Jack and George Alden — Charles Travis — "The Spencers" — "Embla" — 
" Brownie Band" — Sigourney Fay Nininger — Blanche and Fred — John Walker and Co. — Kathlyn B. Stryker — Mary Lester and 
Harry — Midwood — W. Y. Webbe — Ethelberta — " The Butterflies " — " Merry and Co." — Harry and Helene. 

Answers to Puzzles in the October Number were received, before October 15th, from W. H. McGee, 1 — Elizabeth M. Watson 
1 — Laurence Loring, 1 — Roberta C. Whitelock, 2 — "Wisdom," 1 — Mary Rake, 1 — "Stupid," 2 — Gertrude Moras, 1 — Elizabeth 
Ladd, 2 — Jennie C. Hopper, 2 — Rose and Helen Hartley, 6 — Jo and I, S — F. Goyenecke, 1 — B. Finley, 1 — Maxwell F. Lawton, 
2 — "Rose Red," 2 — Helen S. Chapman, 1 — E. F. B.,8 — " Solon," 2 — Alfred T. Carton, 1 — Ernest Freeman, 1 — " Houltonites," 
4 — Fredertca Ycager, 7 — Anna M. Paul, 1 — Dr. Wm. Rear, 1 — Lucy and Eddie H., 7 — Ralph W. Kiefer, 3 — Laura M. Zinser, 7 — 
Marguerite Sturdy, 7 — Mary L. Taylor, 1 — Alice Mildred Blanke and Co., 7 — " Willmat and Co. ,"7 — "Trilby Hearts," 7 — Hubert 
L. Bingay, S — A. I. H., 5 — "Constant Reader,"i — Georgia Bugbee, 7 — Helen Rogers, 8 — Clara A. Anthony, 8 — Helen D. Queen, 1 
— Mai E. HackstafF, 4 — Uncle Will and Ed, 3 — Uncle Will, Mama, and I, 5 — Gladys Johnson, 1 — Josie Tryon, 8 — " Two Romans," 
6 — Betty K. Reilly, 2 — Lucille E. Rosenberg, 1 — Little Willie, 1 — Philip A. Elmer, 1 — Julia Callender, 1 — No name, Fairfield, Conn., 
8 — "Three Brownies," 8 — Edna A. Bailey, 3 — " Lend-a-Hand Club," 2 — Harvey S. Cheney, 1 — Ida Brake, 1 — E. Moore, 1 — Mary 
F. Cloyes, 1 — Gertrude Weinberg, 1. 


When the following words have been rightly guessed, 
and placed one below another, the final letters will all be 
the same, and the next row will spell musical entertain- 

Cross-words : i. Parts of a circle. 2. The god of 
Love. 3. Puts on. 4. Resinous substances. 5. Charges. 
6. The god of War. 7. Small things. S. Persons in 
the military service who eat at the same table. 


EACH of the objects in the above circle may be de- 
scribed by one word. By beginning at the right object, 

and then writing the nine words one below another, as 
they come, the initial letters will spell the name of a 
celebrated American statesman and orator. 


The 1-2 of 2-3-4 and 2-3-4-5 
Was a most apprehensive 1-2-3-4-5. 

She forbade 2-3-4 

To go near the shore, 

And told 2-3-4-5 

Not to swim or to dive. 
*< For " she said, " when you are near the 3-4-5 
It is quite 1-2-3 tnat I 4~5-" 

But all she could do 

Would not check 4-3-2, 

Nor her unruly son, 

Her 4-3-2-1. 
So the patience of 5-4-3-2-1 was gone. 

This riddle will read as well one way as t' other, 
Of this disobedient sister and brother, 
And their apprehensive and fidgety mother. 




By starting at a certain letter, and following a certain 
regular path, three familiar proverbs may be spelled. 






My first was uttered by my second ; my first is not as 
good as a knife to cut my second ; my first tells what my 
second did to my second ; my first is used in the prepara- 
tion of my whole ; my second flavors my whole; my 
second may eat my whole. Alice I. hazeltine. 


All the words pictured contain the same number of 
letters ; when rightly guessed and placed one below the 
other, in the order numbered, the diagonal (from the 
upper left-hand letter to the lower right-hand letter) will 
spell the name of a celebrated American pioneer and 


3 Subtract five hundred from a piece of stamped metal, 
and leave ground grain. 

4. Subtract fifty from a punctuation mark, and leave 
an animal. 

5. Subtract five from to bend, and leave a remedy. 

6. Subtract five from a mechanical power, and leave a 
look of malice. 

7. Subtract fifty-one from a flowering shrub, and leave 
a resinous substance. 

S. Subtract five from to exist, and leave a falsehood. 

9. Subtract one hundred from peaceful, and leave a 
Scottish garment. 

10. Subtract five from uncertain, and leave a chill. 

11. Subtract five and fifty from to slope the edge or 
surface, and leave an industrious insect. 



I. A BIRD. 2. Infrequent. 3. Globes. 4. A point 
of the compass. "jersey quartette." 


Eighteen boys are here concealed, of every age and size ; 
One in each line hiding, — just for a surprise. 

I can reach to upper C: I value much my voice. 

With renewed avidity he pursues his choice. 

They two went together to the music-room, 

Where he sang a song, " When rye-fields are in bloom." 

Oh, no, 't is this, I think, " When the bloom is on the 

A most delightful song; I '11 sing it bye and bye. 
I advise you to stop, a trick or two 's enough. 
It 's better not to go too far, when the play is rough. 
A tale I have to tell ; I one listener would crave. 
Try to live right, and be very good and brave. 
Place a wreath of amaranth on your hero's bier. 
A moral philanthropist was he when here. 
Yes, I like the chromos, especially the rose. 
If elixir 's what I need, I '11 take some, I suppose. 
Put by a tenth, or a certain part, if wise. 
Hurrah for the bicycle ! men, take exercise. 
I hear them in fancy, rills and rippling streams. 
The rain from off the roof ran cisterns full, it seems, 

Twenty little maids are here, 
One in each line — a pretty dear. 

I. A letter. 2. A short sleep. 3. To leap. 4. A 
checkered cloth. 5. Wearied. 6. An evil spirit. 7. 
Loved to excess. 8. A black man. 9. To draw off by 
degrees. 10. Lubricated. II. A snare. 12. A letter. 

M. N. M. and M. B. c. 


Example : Take fifty from a girdle, and leave a wager. 
Answer, Be-l-t, bet. 

1. Subtract five from a frolic, and leave a lively dance. 

2. Subtract five from a fictitious story, and leave an 
old name for Christmas. 

How much is a franc, estimated by a cent ? 
Don't let that rebel in, or you will repent. 
They 're going to convict, or I am much misled. 
"Why do you let errors mar your work?" she said. 
I shed or cast away a garment when it 's patched. 
Pray help to succor a child, from danger lately snatched. 
She made linen cuffs and collars for the boy. 
Don't you think that barb a rather dangerous toy? 
Oh, I think the camel is safe enough to ride. 
Have you the flag at hand? We 've won it for our 

See the latest fashion. What enormous sleeves ! 
That he is a Trojan, everyone believes. 
Out of here ! Scat ! Her in every room I find. 
Have the vest and sleeves with silk of that shade lined. 
Here 's a man that lias important news to tell. 
That 's so ! Phial is spelled vial as well. 
Is that hussar a hero? What will be his rank? 
Speaking of Mont Blanc, "blanc" he pronounced as 

Gold and enamel in dainty trifles seen. 
I have just returned from audience with the queen. 





Vol. XXIII. 

FEBRUARY, 1896. 

No. 4. 

he little maiden opened wide the door= 
^|o let the honored Washington depart 4 , 
^pe gpeat-souled ©enepal, hep mothers friend 
Hfne first; in wap, in peace, in evepy heapf. 

bettep office to you,deap, said he, 
J^nd placed his hand benignly on hep head. 
'With curtsey cjuaint and pevepent,smilincj cjlance- 
Ues,sip;to lei you m" she archly saiol . 



Copyright, 1896, by The Century Co. All rights reserved. 



(Paper-cuttings by Charles Dana Gibson 
when a hoy.) 

By Christine Terhune Herrick. 

About twenty-five years ago, a certain small 
boy who lived in Boston had a slight attack 
of illness. It was nothing serious in itself, but 
it led to something remarkable ; for, one day, 
when the patient was rather fretful and listless, 
his father, to amuse him, began with a pair of 
scissors to cut out figures from paper — a 
horse, a dog, a cow. The little lad was in- 
stantly interested, and his delight was doubled 
when he found that after a few trials he, too, 
could make pictures with the scissors. 


From that day he and they were almost in- 
separable. His mother feared he might injure 
himself with sharp scissors, and so he was pro- 
vided with a good-sized pair of round-pointed 
shears. These he wore hung by a string around 

his neck, and every- 
where he went, they 
went too. The little fingers were constantly busy 
turning out silhouettes of everything that at- 
tracted the child's fancy, until he became as 
skilful with his odd tool as many an older artist 
is with his brush. Strangely enough, he showed 
no desire to draw, and of all those who marveled 
at his knack of picture -making and wondered 
what would come of it, probably no one ima- 
gined that in later life he would win a brilliant 
reputation with his pencil. For the little boy 
of those days is now the Charles Dana Gibson 
whose work has gained such eminence in the 
last few years that it is almost unusual to take 
up a copy of a high-class magazine that does 
not contain at least one article illustrated by 
him. Every one knows "Gibson's girls" — 
those majestic and charming creatures who put 
into visible form the ideal of the best type of 
American young womanhood; but it seems a 
long way from them back to the quaint products 
of the artist's childish skill. 

The earliest attempts of the small boy's fin- 
gers were rude, naturally enough. He began 
by cutting out pictures of monkeys, and quickly 
went on to other animals. While there could 
never be any doubt what the figures were 
meant to be, it must be acknowledged that the 
earliest apes and squirrels were wanting in 
spring, and that his dogs and horses lacked 



spirit. But these qual- 
ities came with the 
incessant practice the 
child bestowed upon 
the work which was 
also his favorite play. 

* K . * 

He found his models everywhere : the circus 
and the menagerie abounded in suggestions for 
pictures, the Natural History Museum was a 
treasure-house of designs. The image of the 
animal seemed to be photographed upon the 
child's brain, and as soon as he was at home 
the scissors were at work reproducing the 

To look at the boy as he worked, no one 
would have thought him especially intent upon 
his occupation. He would sit quietly, his eye- 
lids drooped, apparently indifferent to the fate 
of the picture he was shaping. He did not 

shift the shears in cutting, as an older person 
would do, but held them stationary and moved 
the paper. When he began to use the scissors 
his hand was too small to hold them in the or- 
dinary fashion, so while his thumb was thrust 
through one loop of the handle, his fingers 
closed around the outside of the 
other loop — a trick Mr. Gibson 
has never unlearned, for to this 
day he wields a pair of scissors in 
the same manner as in his almost baby days. 

To the little artist the material upon 
which he worked seemed to be of no 
consequence. Any paper, white or 
tinted, thick or thin, blank or written 
over, would answer, so long as it was 
uncrumpled. There was no paste- 
brush used to join different parts of 
his pictures ; a single piece of paper 
would serve for a figure, and some- 
times for a series of figures, or for a 
whole scene. The delicate foliage 
of his trees and vines, the convolu- 
tions of his serpents, the open mouths 
of his baby birds, were wrought by the 




clumsy shears with as much apparent ease as 
the bolder outlines of his figures of people and 
large animals. In and out of the jaws of the 
big scissors would move the slip of paper, until 
the lace-like picture fluttered forth complete. 

As the child grew older he did not restrict 
himself to copying in his silhouettes only the 
living or pictured models that came in his path. 
His future skill as an illustrator was foreshad- 
owed in the way he chose his subjects. He 
would come home from school full of some 
story he had heard there. 

" They read such a nice story in the class to- 
day," he would say. " See, I will make you a 
picture of it." 

And forth- 
with the fin- 
gers would be 
out the image 
of the dog who 
took care of 

his master's 
horse, of the 
who whipped 
some balking 
mule, or of the 
rooster in his 
various bel- 
ligerent atti- 
tudes. One 
of his most 
works shows 
a hen and 
her chickens 
fleeing before 
the pursuing foe. Each little chick is evidently 
in a different state of mind from any of the oth- 
ers. The first tiptoes along sedately serene, be- 
cause it is close to its mother ; the second makes 
longer strides to overtake the old hen ; while the 
third, conscious of the fierce enemy close be- 
hind, brings its wings to aid its legs in flight. 
The pictures did not always deal with homely 
or domestic subjects. Sometimes there would 
be produced a mounted Indian on the war-path, 
or rabbits leaping through the grass, or a fa- 
ther bird defending the approach to his home 
against a thievish snake with darting tongue, 
while the mother bird hangs protectingly over 
the nest that swings from the end of the bough. 
The little Dana had other inspiration than 
that furnished even by the stories he heard 
or the pictures he saw. His quick imagination 
was at work devising scenes to illustrate, and 
droll and tricksy fancies leave their mark on his 
work. Here a small 
dog, with spectacles 
perched on his nose, 
rides a pony. Here 
a rabbit and a squirrel 
meet, and shake hands. 
There a procession de- 
files before him, a bird 
in front holding out a 
hat for contributions, a 
rabbit whose long ears 
flap from under his 
drum-major's bearskin, 




a helmeted rooster bearing a banner, and, last 

in the line, a dog dressed like an old woman, 

wearing an apron and a bonnet, and carrying 

a broom. Again, it is a small pig that struts 

along with his umbrella spread over his head, 

while all the birds look at him in amazement; 

or else it is an attempt at caricature in the 

picture of a boy with an abnormally large head 

and absurdly long fingers and toes. 

No wonder that the 
family and friends mar- 
veled at the cuttings, and 
collected and preserved 
specimens of the child's 
work. They even had 
some of them displayed 
at an art exhibition, where 
they called forth notice 
and comment from Mr. 
Clarence Cook. 

" But perhaps the most 
remarkable thing in the 
whole exhibition," he 
wrote, " are the frames 
that contain the silhou- 
ettes in white paper, cut 
by Master Dana Gibson, 
a boy now ten or twelve 

years old, but who cut many of these figures — 

and many of 

the best of 

them — when 

he was but 

eight years 

old. In almost 

every case they 

are cut from 

the idea in his 

own mind, not copied from other pictures, 
and they are done without any aid whatever 
from teaching; the work is the product of 
instinct without training. The subjects are 
all of life in action; whatever is done, is 
done with a perfection that we never saw 

So far from seeming unduly puffed up by the 
praise his skill 
received, the 
child showed 
only surprise. 
To him there 
appeared no 
difficulty in 
such work. 

" Any one 
could do it," 
he would say 
simply, when 
some person 
would com- 
ment upon his 
"Any one can 
do it who will 
try. It 's the 
easiest thing in 
the world." 

For none of 
his designs did 
he ever draw an outline. In fact, at the time 
he was doing his best work of this kind he had 
never taken a drawing-lesson, although he be- 
longed to a family of artistic tastes, and his grand- 
father, his father, and his mother had all had more 
or less facility with brush or pencil. But the lad's 



designing was done altogether with his scis- 
sors. With only these he managed to convey 
shades of meaning and of expression, 
and to give spirit and life to his 
pictures. Even although he repeated 
his subjects again and again, there 
was great variety in his work. 

And he had infinite patience. 
Over and over he would cut out 
a picture until he had it, to his 
mind, exactly right. His failures 
would be crumpled in his hand and 
tossed aside without a word. One 
day some one who had watched him 
as he rejected cutting after cutting, 
asked him what was the trouble. 

" It 's that dromedary's lip," sighed the child, 
pausing in his work and lifting a puzzled brow. 
" I have tried and tried, but I 'm afraid I 
can't get it right without going to see the 
dromedary again." 

Until Dana was ten years old he was a 
rather quiet, stay-at-home little fellow. He 
was full of fun of a dry kind, and occasionally 
there would come a flash of sarcasm that showed 
his wits were not confined to his finger-tips. 
As he grew older and became interested in 
outdoor sports and made boyish friendships, 
his paper-cuttings began to be neglected, and 
when he was about fourteen years of age he 
laid down his shears. In their place he took 
up the pencil. 

Among the last of his silhouettes that have 

been preserved are the picture of a child dig- 
ging in the sand, and that of the boy with the 
cockatoo perched upon his wrist. The eager- 
ness of the little girl as she bends forward so 
that her short skirt tilts up at the back, her lips 
parted, her shovel and pail firmly grasped, are 
photographic in their clearness ; while in the 
pose of the boy the mingled pride and fear 
with which he holds the bird are as accurately 
given as the minutest details of his dress. No 
shading or coloring could make the picture 
more vivid. 

This slight sketch must close at the very 
outset of Mr. Gibson's artistic career. He was 
only sixteen years old when 
he entered the New York 
Art League as a pupil, and 

he is not yet thirty. 
No one can say 
how much of his 
wonderful skill he 
owes to the train- 
ing in eye and hand 
he unconsciously 
gave himself as a 
boy; but it is easy 
to trace in his 
scissors silhouettes 
the power he pos- 
sesses in an emi- 
nent degree of giv- 
ing a picture in a 
few clear, telling strokes. The direct vision 
of his childhood he has never lost. 


By J. T. Trowbridge. 

- I 


[Begun in the November number. ] 

Chapter XV. 


" There comes Tracy. He 's a remarkably 
fine boy. The mother is a rare woman, but 
she finds it a hard struggle to get along, and 
it's a constant study with some of the well-to- 
do parishioners how to help the family with- 
out making them feel that they are objects of 
charity. Notice what a frank, engaging face 

he has ! " Fred said, as Tracy, brightly smiling, 
came down the bank. 

" How are you, Trace ? " he went on, when 
Tracy was nearer, and gave the new-comer a 
hearty handshake. " This is my friend, Mr. 
Canton Quimby, of Yale. We have just taken 
a run up from the beach to look at our place. 
What did Laurie tell you ? " 

"He said you were here, and a friend with 
you, not quite so tall, but a little stouter, and 
with fuller cheeks," said Tracy, laughing to see 




how perfectly the Yale Junior answered the 
child's description. 

" All that in his own sign-language ? " Can- 
ton Quimby inquired with evident interest. 

" Oh, yes ; he has been more our teacher in 
that than anyone has ever been his. Come up 
to the house, won't you ? Mother will be glad 
to see you," said Tracy. 

" I 'm afraid we can't at present," Melverton 
replied ; " but I 've something to say to you 
here. Sit down, for it may be a long story." 

But Tracy remained standing before the 
young men on the bench, while he heard 
from Fred's lips, with running comments by 
Quimby, an account of the strange doings on 
the Melverton premises, and of Gid's dismissal. 

Astonishment at the loss of the cup, and the 
mystery attending it, and, as must be owned, 
the satisfaction of his grudge against Gideon, 
sent the blood mounting to the boy's head in 
keen excitement. 

" I never had any faith in that Ketterell fel- 
low ! " he exclaimed; " and I was surprised — " 

A timely recollection of his mother's warning 
checked the impetuous outburst; but for that 
he might have gone on and given his latest, 
burning reasons for disliking Gideon. 

" Surprised I should have employed him," 
Melverton rejoined. " I am a little surprised 
myself. But my mother thought we ought to 
give him a chance. And I surely believed he 
was honest. Mind, I don't say I 'm convinced 
to the contrary yet. He has unquestionably 
been negligent, and he may have been know- 
ingly unfaithful, but we are bound to have a 
good deal of charity for the son of so worthy 
a mother — and of so unworthy a father!" 

" That 's true," Tracy assented, generously ; 
" that 's what mother says. Old man Ketterell 
can't be trusted even to collect money for the 
washing his wife does to support the family. 
Gid comes honestly by his shiftlessness." 

" So we won't be hard on him," Fred went 
on. "But this affair must be looked into; 
and in the meanwhile, Tracy, can't you, as a 
special favor to me, keep your eye on the 
place, and perhaps air the house for us in fine 
weather ? " 

Tracy was delighted. 

•'I '11 do anything that Gid did, — or ought 

to have done, — and think it nothing but sport," 
he said, heartily. 

"That 's altogether too much," the young 
man protested. 

"Just let me try it !" cried the boy. "Our 
own garden does n't take more than a few 
hours a week, and Mr. Walworth likes to help 
about that. I get tired of reading and study. 
And — I shall be so glad to do the least thing 
in return for all the favors your family has done 
for us," he added, with grateful emotion. 

" Oh, don't mention trifles of that sort ! " 
Fred replied, with responsive feeling. Then 
he resumed : 

" It 's just possible you may pick up a clue 
that will lead to the unraveling of the mystery. 
Look out for any suspicious characters that 
come prowling about the place ; and find out, 
if you can, any that have been seen there dur- 
ing Gid's administration. If you make any 
discoveries, send me at once a telegram that 
I and nobody else will understand, for I 
don't want any publicity given to the affair at 
present. I sha' n't mention it to a living soul, 
except the chief of police." 

" Can I tell my own folks ? " Tracy asked, 
thrilled to the roots of his hair by the confi- 
dence his friend reposed in him, and by the 
importance of his trust. It did n't seem possi- 
ble that he could keep it all to himself. 

" Tell them — oh, certainly ; we can rely 
upon their discretion," Fred replied. " Now 
come over to the house, and I '11 give you the 
keys and explain matters." 

" You 're sure you can't just step up to the 
door and speak to my mother and Ida ? " said 

But Fred answered firmly : " Not this time " ; 
and led the way up the Melverton bank. 

Chapter XVI. 


" Why, what is it, Trace ? " said Ida Lisle, 
noticing her brother's panting breath and 
gleaming eyes when he came in to dinner. 

" The strangest things have been happen- 
ing ! " he exclaimed. " They 're not to be 
spoken of outside," — he glanced around at the 




young minister coming out of his study — ''but 
I can tell you all, here at home." 

And, without waiting to be questioned, he 
broke forth impetuously; 

" The Melverton house has been entered, 
Fred's beautiful prize cup has been stolen, Gid 
Ketterell has been turned off, and I am in 
charge ! " 

The exciting news was discussed as the fam- 
ily sat down at the table. 

" I am sorry for Gideon — and so sorry for 
his mother ! " said Mrs. Lisle. " I hope he is 
not suspected of taking the cup." 

" Not exactly, but — " 

And Tracy went over the circumstances of 
the case as well as he could recall them. 

" Now I am to look after the place, and do 
what I can — if there 's anything I can do — 
toward clearing up the mystery. I have n't 
the slightest idea how I am to begin." 

" Possibly I can give you a hint," suggested 
Mr. Walworth. " Gideon, I understand, says 
he received no one into the house in the ab- 
sence of the family ? " 

" He was quite positive about that ; so Fred 
told me," replied Tracy. 

" I shall regret to contradict Gideon's testi- 
mony," rejoined the young minister. " You 
know the rock among the syringas, where I 
sometimes have my cushion, and my book, and 
my writing-pad — " 

" Your out-door study, we call it," said Ida. 

" Last Tuesday afternoon I was there, mak- 
ing some notes, when I noticed a young fel- 
low coming down through the hollow by the 
brook. Something in his manner excited my 
curiosity ; and I watched him as he went up 
rather slyly over the bank toward the Melver- 
ton house. I saw him throw something from 
behind the shrubbery ; then I heard a voice, — 
two voices, — and he disappeared in the direc- 
tion of the house. I continued to hear the 
voices for a while, then they ceased with the 
shutting of a door. I had forgotten the circum- 
stance, and was absorbed in my studies again, 
when — I hardly know how long after — I heard 
the same subdued voices, and shortly after saw 
the same young fellow come down over the 
bank, moving cautiously till he got into the 
ravine. Then, instead of going up the brook, 

the way he came, he followed it down toward 
the bridge, and I lost sight of him." 

More than once during this recital Tracy had 
interrupted it to demand excitedly, — " Who 
was it? Who was the fellow?" and his sister 
had silenced him with, " Can't you wait a min- 
ute ? Can't you let him tell his story ? " At 
length the minister replied : 

" I don't know his name; but I have several 
times seen him, oftener on the river than any- 
where else. Under the clump of willows, not 
far from where the brook flows in, somebody 
keeps a boat, which I have seen him help him- 
self to, as if he had a right to it." 

" A muscular young fellow with a bend in his 
shoulders? Carries his head forward — like 
this ? " cried Tracy eagerly. 

" That 's it ; that 's very like him," Mr. Wal- 
worth smilingly assented. 

" It 's Osk ! It 's Oscar Ordway ! " Tracy 
exclaimed. " The very last fellow the Melver- 
tons would wish to enter their house ! " 

" Mind, I don't say positively he did enter 
it," said the minister. " I 've only told you 
how it appeared to me." 

" Of course Gid let him in," Tracy cried ju- 
bilantly. " You 've given me a very important 
point, Mr. Walworth. If Osk Ordway did n't 
drink some of that cider, and if he does n't 
know something about the missing cup, then 
there 's no sense in my knowledge-box! " 

" Don't start out with the notion that there 's 
more sense in it than there really is," his sister 
warned him, laughingly. " There 's a limit even 
to that, as we all know." 

" Oh, but anybody can see," cried her bro- 
ther, " Osk is in it, and Gid knows he is. I 
know boys that know Osk, and I 'm going into 
this affair, to the very bottom." 

" Don't be rash, my son," his mother cau- 
tioned him. " Whatever you do, be consider- 
ate, be discreet." 

" Considerate ? " echoed the boy, in a flush 
of high spirits. " I 'm the most considerate, 
the most discreet — I '11 prove it to you! In 
all my talk with Fred Melverton, I never men- 
tioned the mean trick Gid played our Laurie, 
nor his impudent attempt to drive me from the 
place. If that does n't show forbearance ! " 

" Well, be as circumspect in everything, and 




I shall be satisfied," said his mother. " Why, 
Laurie! where have you been?" she cried, 
precisely as if the child, who just then came run- 
ning in, had possessed the sense he lacked. 

There had been inquiries for Midget as the 
family were sitting down to dinner ; but he was 
so wayward a little wanderer, often very hard 
to find, since no calling could make him hear, 
that they gave little heed to his absences, as- 
sured that he would reappear when he was 
hungry, if not before. 

He was in a joyous mood, and he had a 
merry tale to tell, which all except the minister 

" Somebody has taken him to ride," said his 

'• On a bicycle," added Tracy, reading the 
child's rapid gestures. " There were two bi- 
cycles ; they picked him up at the bridge — " 

" Gave him a fine ride to the village," Ida 
struck in, " and dropped him at the bridge 

"Fred and his friend," concluded Tracy; 
" it was Fred who gave him the ride. They 
were going to see the chief of police." 

"You don't mean to say he tells you that!" 
said Mr. Walworth. 

" Oh, no, not about Fred's errand to the 
village," Tracy replied. " Fred told me that 
was his intention. I wish I could have caught 
him when he came back to the bridge, to tell 
him about Osk Ordway. For it 's a clue ! " he 
cried, " decidedly a clue, and I am going to 
follow it up ! " 

Chapter XVII. 


When Gid Ketterell went out from the Mel- 
verton place after his dismissal, he took the 
brookside path below the bridge, and strode as 
straight as the winding way would permit to 
the clump of willows by the river, where Osk 
Ordway usually kept his boat. 

The boat was gone. 

" He 's off with the boys somewheres," Gid 
muttered, casting impatient glances up and 
down the placid stream out of his reddened and 
sullen eyes. " Never mind; I don't move from 
this spot, all the same, till he comes in ! " 

There was a tree that pushed out so straight 
from the group, before its top and branches 
curved upward over the water, that trunk and 
root together made a saddle-shaped seat. This 
Gid bestrode ; and with a twin trunk at his 
back, forming an upright support, he found 
himself in a comfortable position while waiting 
for the boat. Comfortable as to his body, but by 
no means so as to his state of mind. Savagely 
angry with Osk, whom he blamed for his dis- 
grace, and for the terrible suspicion that had 
fallen upon him ; almost as angry with himself 
for having weakly yielded to Osk' s influence 
after he had been warned against it ; afraid to 
go home and fall into the hands of his mother 
— agitated with these emotions he took no 
thought of the quaint and gnarly old easy-chair 
he sat on, nor of the pleasant, sun-flecked 
shade flung over and about him, on the stream 
and on the shore, from the long willow-boughs 
swaying in the breeze. 

The breeze fanned his hot brow ; the water 
rippled and sparkled in the sun ; bees and 
dragon-flies hovered over the water-lilies and 
pickerel-weeds, and butterflies flitted along the 
shore; turtles were sunning themselves on a half- 
sunken log, and a kingfisher, springing his rattle 
as he flew from a tree near by, poised a mo- 
ment in the air, and then struck the wave with 
a splash. But Gid Ketterell saw none of these 
things. He took out his knife, and began to 
whittle the trunk on which he sat, in the bark 
of which many a previous jack-knife had carved 
the rude initials of names he knew. 

He was not even aware that he had a knife 
in his hand. Behind his screen of boughs he 
listened for voices, and looked up and down 
the shore for the returning boat, thinking in- 
tently of the bad thing that had happened to 
him, what he ought to have done differently, 
and what he was still to do and say when he 
and Osk should meet once more face to face. 
He hoped that would happen soon, before he 
had time to get over his anger ; for it was anger 
alone, as he very well knew, that gave him 
courage for the encounter. 

" If I had only owned up when I had a 
chance ! " he said to himself. " Why did n't 
I ? Why did n't I ? I 'd have done it, if I 
had n't been afraid and ashamed to say how I 




had let him impose on me — forcing his way 
in, making me show him the cup, and drinking 
the cider. Now see where I am ! After I 'd 
begun to lie, I could n't go back. Telling the 
truth could n't have made it any worse for me ; 
I should have got turned off just the same. I 
could stand that. But to be blamed for what 
Osk did afterward ! For it was Osk — I know 
it was Osk ! " 

He was musing in this way, though not in so 

" Oh, yes, you can ; he 's one of the sort 
you can do almost anything with; you can 
wind him around your little finger — at least, 
I can ! Only don't tell him I said I had seen 
it; he made me promise not to." 

" They 're talking about the cup ! " thought 
Gid, stunned and breathless. He listened again, 
as the boat drew nearer. 

" I 'm afraid you won't get any cider," said 
Osk ; " for there was only one more bottle left. 

many words, when he heard voices and the 
clank of oars, and presently saw Osk's boat 
coming around a bend. Osk was in the stern, 
steering, and a boy about Gid's own age was 
rowing, with his back turned toward the clump 
of willows. 

" It 's Dord Oliver," Gideon said, as he 
peered through the branches with fierce eyes. 
" I '11 wait till he gets out of the way. You 
may laugh, Osk Ordway, but 't will be out of 
t' other side of your mouth when I tackle you ! " 

The voices were pitched in a low key, but 
sounds pass easily over the water, and soon Gid 
could hear parts of the conversation. The 
sound of his own name, uttered by Osk with a 
derisive titter, was like the sting of a hornet. 

" They 're talking about me ! " he muttered, 
holding himself stiff and still against the upright 
trunk to keep from being seen. 

Dord made some reply, but the words were 
indistinguishable. Then Osk said : 


I left that for manners. But you can make 
him show you — mind, I don't say what." 

If he meant the cup, he was talking as if 
he believed it was still in the place where he 
had seen it. Gid was bewildered by this sup- 
posed assumption on the part of the suspected 
thief, until he had rallied his wits a little. 




Meanwhile the boys ran the boat aground, 
and began to throw out fish, which they counted 
as they cast them on the shore. 

" It 's all make-believe," Gid reasoned. " He 
thinks it 's time for the cup to be missed. 
He knows I '11 accuse him, and he talks that 
way so he can bring up a witness to prove that 
he thought it was still in the house. But he 
can't throw dust in my eyes — not very much ! " 

By turning his head a little and looking back 
he could watch every movement of the others; 
while they might likewise have seen him if they 
had not been so busy with their catch of fish. 
After they had thrown these out and had stepped 
out themselves, they made the boat fast to a stake, 
within three paces of the ambushed Gideon. 

" You divide 'em, while I 'm cutting twigs 
to string 'em on," said Osk, looking up into the 
willow branches, and advancing directly to- 
ward Gid on the other side of his upright tree. 
He was raising his hand to reach the hanging 
branches beyond. " Ough ! " he ejaculated, 
starting back as if he had chanced upon a wild 
Indian in ambush. " What in thunder — Gid ! " 

Gid turned up at him angrily glowering eyes. 

" What 's the matter with you ? " Osk de- 
manded, quickly recovering from his surprise — 
" stuck here in the crotch of the tree ! " 

For sole response Gid continued to glare at 
him threateningly. Osk perceived at once that 
some untoward thing had happened. No 
doubt Gid had overheard his talk with Dord; 
well if it were nothing worse ! 

" Here 's Gid Ketterell," cried Osk, " glum 
as an oyster. I can't get a word out of him." 

" Osk Ordway," said Gid, without moving 
from his seat, but keeping his fiery eyes on the 
author of his woes, " you '11 get words out of 
me you won't like to hear, before we part com- 
pany. I can wait until you string your fish 
and let Dord get out of the way ; for I guess 
you '11 think it 's as well to talk with me alone ! " 

Chapter XVIII. 

osk ordway's little finger. 

All this Gideon said without faltering, but 
a spasmodic catching of his breath made his 
voice sound ominously thick and tremulous. 

'• Thunder and Mars ! " Osk exclaimed. " I 
never saw you so mad in all my life. I did n't 
know you could be so riled ! If it 's anything 
I 've done, I '11 make it all right." 

"Oh, yes!" Gid retorted. "I know you 
will. I 'm one of the sort you can do anything 
with ! — wind me around your little finger, can 
you ? We '11 see about that ! " 

" That was all in fun," Osk said, trying to 
turn off his embarrassment with a laugh. " I '11 
see you in a minute." 

He cut two or three forked branches, and 
turned to his companion on the shore. 

" That 's all right, Dord," he said, seeing how 
the fish had been divided. " Take whichever 
pile you please, and don't wait for me. I 've 
got to have a little row with Gid here," lower- 
ing his voice ; " he 's pudgicky about some- 
thing, — what I was saying to you, I suppose. 
Keep dark about that thing, Dord ! " 

Osk busied himself stringing his own fish un- 
til Dord was gone, then turned once more to 
Gid, who got down from the tree-trunk and 
stood confronting him. 

" Now what is it, Gid ? " Osk asked in the 
friendliest way. 

" You know what it is ! " Gid flung back, 
his quivering features charged with wrathful 

" My talk with Dord, I suppose," said Osk. 
" But I don't see anything in that to raise your 
porcupine's quills at me this way. A fellow 
must have his joke. That 's all it was." 

" It ain't that, and you know it," replied the 
implacable Gid. He still grasped his knife, 
looking as if he might easily be tempted to 
turn it into a weapon. Osk, who, like most 
bullies, was not so intrepid as he wished to 
appear, kept a wary eye on the blade. 

" Why, Gid, you 're out o' your head ! you 're 
crazy, sure ! " he said, taking a step backward. 

" You '11 find out whether I 'm crazy or not," 
said Gid, growing more bold and menacing as 
Osk showed a disposition to retreat. But as 
he advanced, Osk stopped with a fire in his 
eyes, and put up a warning hand. 

" Quit right there, Gid ! " he said, with his 
chin out and his head thrust insolently forward 
from his bent shoulders. " I ain't going to 
stand this nonsense — talking to me that way 




and threatening me ! Put up that knife or I '11 
throw it into the river, — and you after it." 

" Better try it ! " Gid answered, defiantly. 
" I '11 talk as I please, spite of your bluster and 
pretended ignorance. I 've been turned off by 
FredMelverton, — kicked out, — accused of steal- 
ing, — and all through you, Osk Ordway ! " 

" You don't say ! " Osk exclaimed. " I 
never believed that would happen, and I 'm 
awfully sorry. Did he miss the cider ? " 

" Yes ; and he missed something else, Osk 
Ordway ! " Gid leveled at him a terrible look, 
and put the question Fred had put to him, — 
"Where is that prize cup ? " 

" That prize cup ! " Osk repeated, with real 
or feigned astonishment. " You don't mean — " 

" Yes, I do mean ! The prize cup I was 
fool enough to show you, and you were dishon- 
est enough to steal ! " said Gideon. 

" You don't say that has been taken ! You 
left it in the drawer; I saw you," Osk said 
rather weakly, as it seemed to Gid. 

" And nobody else saw me," Gid retorted. 
" Nobody else knew where to look for it. The 
cider and the cup are the only things Fred has 
missed. You know about the cider and you 
know about the cup." 

" Did you tell him that ? " Osk inquired 

" No, I did n't. But I wish I had. I had 
denied touching the cider, or letting anybody 
into the house. Then when he said the cup 
had been taken, I could n't go back on my 
word. I wish now I had," Gid repeated, with 
bitter self-reproach. 

He related all that had happened in his in- 
terview with Fred, and again charged Osk with 
the robbery. Osk laughed scornfully. 

"The idea of my doing such a thing as that! " 
he exclaimed. " You don't really think I did, 
Gid Ketterell. For my part," he went on, 
without listening to Gid's indignant protesta- 
tion, " I don't believe the cup has been stolen. 
I don't take any stock in that story. Fred is 
bluffing you. He took it out of the drawer 
himself, to give you a good scare, after he found 
out about the cider." 

" You think so ? " Gid replied, shaken by the 

plausible argument, and grasping at that straw 
of hope. 

" No doubt of it," said Osk. " Fred says to 
himself, he says, ' Two bottles of cider gone,' he 
says ; ' he 's had somebody in the house, and 
now I '11 teach him a lesson.' See ? " 

" No, I don't see ! " Gid muttered. He was, 
however, more than half convinced that Osk 
was right, and he wished to be wholly convinced. 
" I don't believe he 'd have made a fuss about 
the cider, if that had been all he missed ; he 
ain't that kind of a chap. Anyhow, it 's all 
through you I 've lost the place." 

" You '11 get taken back again," Osk assured 
him. " Only stick to your story, and soon as 
he sees you 're not to be beat out of it, he '11 
conclude he 's in the wrong." 

"The cup is all I care for," Gid murmured, 
his anger fast giving way before the wily in- 
fluence of his betrayer. " If I could only think 
it was the way you say ! " 

" I '11 bet my life on 't ! " Osk declared ; 
" but keep still about it, and you never '11 hear 
from it again. As for the place, I 'm sorry; 
but even if you don't go back, you '11 have a 
better time this summer than if you 'd kept it; 
you 'd have soon got sick of all that." 

" I suppose I should," Gid admitted ; " but 
what will my mother say when she knows ? " 

" She need n't know," said Osk. " You can 
go off every day just as if you were going to 
Melverton's, and have all your time to your- 
self. Would n't she like some of these fish ? 
I '11 give you some to carry home ; they '11 
please her, and keep her from noticing anything 
strange in your looks. Then I 've got some 
schemes to let you into. You know we 've 
always had good times together, Gid." 

" But why did you talk about me that way 
to Dord Oliver ? " said Gid, with a last feeble 
flaming up of his waning resentment. " You 
told him about my showing the cup." 

" I never mentioned the cup ! It was all 
talk, anyway ; a fellow must say something. 
You know you and I are always good cronies," 
said Osk, completing again the process, which 
he had boasted was so easy, of winding Gid 
around his little finger. 

( To be continued.} 


By Albert Stearns. 

[Begun in the January number.} 

Chapter III. 


" You 're joking, sir ! " exclaimed Tom. 

" Oh, no, I 'm not; I mean just -what I say. 
So far as I have been able to learn from our 
landlord, you have no family or other ties to 
bind you to this place; you are free to go and 
come as you like." 

" I suppose I am," the boy admitted. 

" Well, I 'm heartily tired of traveling alone, 
and I 'd like to have you with me ; in the first 
place because I 've taken a fancy to you, and 
secondly because you are a mystery." 

" A mystery ! " 

"Yes; you 're a long-lost son, you know. 
Don't be offended ; of course your private affairs 
are none of my business, but in all my travels 
I never before met a long-lost son, and you 
can't guess how delightful a new sensation is to 
a man of my years and experience." 

" I wish Zeb Pettibone would n't tell every- 
body that comes along all about me," said 
Tom, with flushed face. 

" Don't be vexed," said the explorer, sooth- 
ingly ; " I don't believe he would have told me 
if I had not asked him. Now, to return to our 
muttons, as the French say : You are, like all 
boys, fond of adventure, and you '11 get lots 
of it with me — you know the sort of adventures 
/ meet with. You can be of a good deal of 
assistance to me too : you can help pack my 
valise, arrange our routes, and all that sort of 
thing. I assure you I shall appreciate your 
aid very much, for details have always bored 
me dreadfully; and, to tell you the truth, I 'm 
not the man I was two or three centuries ago. 
Now what do you say ? Are we partners ? Yes 
or no? " 

"Yes," Tom replied promptly. 
Vol. XXIII.— 36. » 

" Good ! Shake hands on that ! " 

When they had shaken hands Sindbad said : 

" One of the objects of our travels shall be 
to find your parents. You don't suppose you 
had a fairy godmother, do you ? — because 
if you had, it will be a very easy matter. Try 
to remember." 

" Why, of course I had n't," replied Tom, 
laughing; "there are no fairy godmothers now- 

" Are n't there, though ? " said Sindbad, with 
a mysterious wink. " Don't you be too sure 
of that. But you, probably, did n't have one, 
or you would have heard from her before this. 
After all, you 're just as well off, for fairies are 
very tricky. I know that to my cost — look at 
these ragged trousers ; it 's the fault of a fairy 
that I 'm obliged to wear them at all." 

" How is that ? " asked Tom. 

" Well, it 's a long story, and I won't try to 
tell it all ; suffice it to say that during one of 
my later voyages I rendered a certain service 
to a powerful and influential fairy, and in return 
she granted me one wish." 

" You did n't wish for those trousers, did you ? " 

" No; but I wished that whenever I put my 
hand in my pocket I should find money. 
' That '11 be all right,' said the fairy ; ' put your 
hand in your pocket now.' I did so, and drew 
out a gold coin. ' I 'm sure I 'm ever so much 
obliged,' I said. ' I suppose this sort of thing 
will continue indefinitely ? ' 'It will last as 
long as the trousers do,' replied the fairy, with 
a peculiar laugh that I did n't like ; and she 
vanished. Well, I resolved at once, of course, 
that I 'd take mighty good care of those 
trousers. And I have done so, but you see 
what they look like now. I 'm ashamed to be 
seen in them, but what can I do ? " 

" Can't you find money in the pockets of any 
of your other trousers ? " inquired Tom. 

" Not unless I put it there." 



" But see here," said the boy, " why don't 
you fish out money enough from the enchanted 
pocket to last you two or three weeks ? You 
could put it in another pocket, and then pack 
away these trousers till you needed them again." 

Sindbad shook his head sadly. 

" Don't you suppose I thought of that years 
ago ? " he said. " I tried it a good while be- 
fore you were born, but it would n't work." 

" Why would n't it ? " queried Tom. 

" Because that fairy played a mean trick on 
me. She always seemed fair and square, and I 
should n't have thought it of her, but she did 
it. I invariably find the money in the pocket 
when I want it, but the trouble is — " and Sind- 
bad lowered his voice to a whisper and glanced 
apprehensively over his shoulder — "it does n't 

" Does n't last ? What do you mean, sir? " 

" I mean that it dematerializes — melts into 
thin air, a few minutes after it leaves my pocket. 
You 've no idea how much embarrassment that 
has caused me. Only a short time after my 
interview with the fairy I tried the plan you 
just suggested. I filled one of my coat pockets 
with gold coins, and in five minutes they had 
disappeared, leaving nothing behind them but 
their memory. Why, I 've paid the landlord 
of this house twice, and the money has disap- 
peared both times. The only way I ever man- 
age to have any cash about me is to change 
one of the gold pieces ; the change does n't 
disappear until I spend it. That 's why I got 
Mr. Pettibone to give me those bills for a ten- 
dollar gold piece." 

" That looks a little like obtaining money 
under false pretenses," said Tom, bluntly. 

Sindbad's face flushed. 

" No, it does n't, either," he said. " I did n't 
pretend anything; I just gave him the eagle, 
and it was all right when it left my hands. 
It 's all the fairy's fault, anyhow ; if anybody 
is guilty of false pretenses, she is." 

'■ But Mr. Pettibone is the loser, just the 
same," suggested Tom. 

" Well, are you going to keep harping on 
that subject all day ? " asked Sindbad, irritably. 
'" That enchanted pocket is my only means 
of support, and I 'm far too old to work. 
What would you have me do ? " and he rose 

and began pacing the piazza, while his face 
was red and angry. 

Tom made no reply. He had read, only a 
few days before, that it was usually impossible 
to admire distinguished persons, except at a 
distance; that when one approached them too 
closely one was likely to experience a shock ; 
and he reflected sadly that this statement was 
but too true of Sindbad. 

The color upon the sailor's face soon died 
away. Pausing abruptly, and fixing his blue 
eye appealingly upon the boy's face, he said : 

" You must admit, anyhow, that there are ex- 
tenuating circumstances in my case." 

Tom could not help being melted by that 
glance; he began to think he had judged Sind- 
bad too harshly. 

" Yes, of course there are, sir," he replied. 
" But why did you tell Mr. Pettibone you 
could n't give him another gold piece, when 
you say that you are able to produce them 
by the hundred ? " 

" Well, you are a hair-splitter," said Sindbad. 
" But I '11 answer your question : I don't believe 
in throwing away money, no matter how great 
my resources. Pettibone has been paid twice 
already, and his bill was exorbitant in the first 
place. But come, I don't propose to stand 
here arguing with you all the afternoon. Do 
you wish to go into partnership with me, or 
do you not ? " 

" I do," replied Tom, promptly. 

" Very good ; as Sindbad, Smith & Co., Ex- 
plorers, we may, and I believe we shall, achieve 
wonders that will eclipse all my former exploits. 
I 've been thinking of taking a partner for sev- 
eral centuries ; but somehow I never got about 
it, never found exactly the right person. I 
believe I have now, however; and you ought 
to feel highly honored by my preference." 

Tom replied that he did feel honored, and 
then asked : 

" But who is the ' Co.,' sir ? " 

" The ' Co.' at present is nominal," replied 
Sindbad ; " but we may run across some one 
whom we shall wish to take into partnership 
with us. If we don't, it will make no particular 
difference. Sindbad, Smith & Co. sounds a 
good deal better than Sindbad & Smith, any- 
how ; don't vou think so ? " 

i8 9 6.] 

What shall we do first, Mr. 


" Yes, it does 
Sindbad ? " 

" Well, I don't know. I guess we 'd better 
just drift along and wait for something star- 
tling to turn up." 

" But suppose nothing startling does turn 
up ? " suggested Tom. 

" I can't entertain such an absurd supposition 
for a moment," said Sindbad. " You have 
read enough about me to know that something 
must turn up if I start to go anywhere. ' Sup- 
pose nothing turns up ! ' That makes me laugh. 
He! he!" 

" You don't think my being with you will 
make any difference, do you ? It might," said 
the boy. 

" Bless you, no, my dear fellow! " replied Sind- 
bad. " Why, my presence on any public con- 
veyance is sure to bring on some sort of a ca- 
tastrophe. It 's only once in a long while that 
a vessel upon which I embark is n't wrecked ; 
and as for railroad trains — well, you know, 
don't you, how I happen to be here ? " 

" You were in the great accident last Tues- 
day, were n't you, sir ? " asked Tom. 

" Yes ; and I was the only person in my car 
who was n't injured. Oh, you '11 have plenty 
of excitement when you travel with me, my 

Tom was silent; observing that his face wore 
a rather dubious expression, Sindbad hastened 
to add : 

" I don't think you need expect any trouble. 
Of course I can't undertake to guarantee your 
safety, but I have no doubt that the fact of 
our partnership will be a great protection to 
you. Naturally, you won't at first have the 
same restful feeling in the midst of a tornado or 
a shipwreck that I experience, but it '11 come 
to you after a while. Why, I used to be half 
scared out of my wits if a storm came up when 
I had been a day or two at sea, — it makes me 
laugh to think of it, — but now I don't enjoy a 
voyage if I 'm not shipwrecked. You '11 feel 
just the same in time." 

" I hope so." 

" Oh, there 's not the shadow of a doubt 
of it. But we must be getting ready to go. 
When does the next train start ? " 

" In which direction ? " 

" In any direction; it 's all the same to me. 
Have you any preference ? " 

" Well," hesitated Tom, " I 've always wanted 
to go to New York." 

" We '11 go, then ; but it 's two hundred miles 
from here, and there 's no telling how many 
weeks it will take us to get there." 

" Weeks ! " laughed Tom. " Why, the five- 
twenty express is due in the city at ten o'clock." 

" Oh, yes, it 's due then," said Sindbad, with 
a look of awful meaning; "but will it get 
there then? — that 's the question; / shall 
be on board." 

" But trains that you ride on are n't always 
wrecked, are they ? " asked the boy, with some 

" Well, once in a while there 's an exception," 
replied Sindbad. " But," he added hastily, " we 
must not waste any more time in idle talk. 
You go and get ready for the journey, while I 
pack my valise and make myself a little more 
presentable " ; and he bustled into the house, 
followed by his bewildered partner. 

The explorer occupied two of the best rooms 
in the hotel. As he entered his parlor he said to 

" Make haste, my boy, for it 's nearly five 
o'clock now." 

The lad climbed up to his attic room and 
packed his few belongings, wondering if it were 
not all a dream. 

When he returned to the piazza he found 
Mr. Pettibone awaiting him. 

" Here yeou be, hey ? " said the old man, 
sourly. " I 've been a-lookin' fer yeou. All 
slicked up, ain't yeou ? What hev yeou got in 
that bag ? " 

" My clothes. I 'm going away with Mr. 

"Yeou 're what? " cried the landlord. 

Tom coolly repeated the statement. 

" B-but I wanted yeou tew go aout an' feed 
the hosses," gasped Mr. Pettibone. 

" I can't do it ; we 've got to catch the five- 

" But see here, I wanted yeou tew stay here 
an' dew chores fer me; I need a boy raound 
the place." 

"You 're too late," replied Tom; "I 've 
made other arrangements." 




I have n't a doubt 

" I '11 give yeou a dollar a week an' yeour 
keep," persisted Mr. Pettibone. 

" Can't do it. Besides, I heard you tell Mr. 
Sindbad that I was an elephant on your hands, 
and was n't good for anything." 

"That 's what he said," laughed Sindbad, 
suddenly emerging from the house. " The lad 
has you there, landlord." 

" So yeou 've hired him, hev yeou ? " said 
Mr. Pettibone. 

" Not exactly ; we 're partners now." 

" Humph ! Wa-al, I wish yeou joy o' yeour 

" Thank you, landlord 
that Tom and I shall get 
along admirably. Good 

" Good day," added 
Tom, with a half mali- 
cious grin ; and the part- 
ners walked away, leav- 
ing Mr. Pettibone staring 
after them with wide-open 

Sindbad had donned a 
stylish traveling-suit, and 
seemed to be in the best 
of spirits. 

" I 'm very glad I hap- 
pened to run across you," 
he said ; " I feel in my 
bones that we 're going to 
have lots of fun together. 
But I say, why did n't you 
tell me that my eyes did 
n't match ? When I got 
up-stairs and looked in 
the glass I was awfully 
embarrassed to see one 
blue eye and one black." 

" I did n't like to men- 
tion it, sir," replied Tom 
start — "they 're both black now!" 

" Oh, yes ; of course I corrected the mistake 

of all colors ; got 'em on my twentieth voyage, 
and learned how to use 'em." 

They had now reached the station, and the 
five-twenty express was thundering in. Sind- 
bad rushed to the window and purchased the 
tickets ; in another minute the first journey of 
Sindbad, Smith & Co. was begun. 

Chapter IV. 


"This is n't the way I usually travel, and I 
don't like it," growled Sindbad, as he seated 
himself beside his partner. " It 's plebeian, 


But" — with a 

that 's what it is ; and I do detest anything 

" Why, what 's the matter, sir ? " asked Tom, 
who had been admiring the magnificence of his 

as soon as I discovered it." 

"Then — then your left eye is a glass one, surroundings, 
sir?" hesitated Tom, fearful of offending his " I always ride in a parlor-car," said Sindbad, 

new partner. discontentedly ; " and it 's rough for a man of 

" Glass ? Nothing of the sort ; it 's a real, my years to have to put up with inferior ac- 

practical eye. I have an assortment of them, commodations like these. Some folks in my 



position would make a great fuss, but I 'm not 
one of that kind. I suppose I shall get used 
to it before our journey is over. I '11 try to, 

" There 's a parlor-car on this train," said 

" I know there is, but I have n't money 
enough to pay for seats in it. The fare was 
more than I thought it would be, and I 've 
only forty cents left out of the ten dollars Mr. 
Pettibone gave me." 

" But the magic trousers are in your valise, 
are n't they, sir ? " said Tom. " You might 
slip your hand into the pocket, and — " 

" Of course they are not in the valise," inter- 
rupted Sindbad, severely. " I should think you 
would have more sense." 

" I thought — " 

" Never mind just now what you thought," 
said Sindbad, who seemed very much out of 
sorts; " but listen to me. Suppose an accident 
happened to this train, and the enchanted trou- 
sers were in the valise ; and suppose I lost 
the valise, as I probably should : then where 
would I be ? My only source of income would 
be gone, and I should be obliged to begin life 
over again — which at my age is a more serious 
thing than you seem to imagine." 

And the explorer gazed resentfully at his 
partner, who began to feel quite remorseful, 
though he did not know exactly why. 

" Where are the trousers, sir ? " he asked. 

" They 're — where I can't very well get at 
them just now. The fact is, I generally use 
them as a chest-protector when I 'm traveling, 
and they are utilized in that capacity now. I 
have an ingenious way of folding them, and 
I don't doubt that they have saved me many a 
severe cold." 

Tom murmured his admiration of Sindbad's 
fertility of invention, but his compliments did 
not seem to soften his irritated companion in 
the least. 

"That 's all right," said the explorer; "but 
we may have to travel four long, weary hours 
in this exquisitely uncomfortable car, just the 

" I have a little money with me," said Tom, 

" Oh, have you ? " cried Sindbad, his counte- 

nance clearing up. " Why did n't you say so 
before ? How much have you ? " 

" About four dollars and a half." 

"Then we 're all right; we '11 have parlor- 
car seats. Of course, as we 're partners, you 
expect to contribute something to the cash 
capital of the firm. I don't ask you to do a 
great deal ; but as I have already expended 
nine dollars and sixty cents, I think you ought 
to put in your four and a half dollars." 

Tom, still a little embarrassed, expressed his 
entire willingness to do so. 

" Spoken like the open-hearted lad I took 
you for ! " said Sindbad. " And now let 's go 
right in and get our seats." 

But Tom lingered. 

" There 's one thing I 'm kind of sorry about," 
he said sheepishly. 

" What is it ? " 

" The money is nearly all in pennies and 

" Tut ! tut ! " said Sindbad, frowning. " Why, 
how is that ? " 

" It 's some money I had been saving to get 
a pair of skates this winter, and I put it away 
just as I got it. I hate to count out in pen- 
nies the two dollars that the parlor-car seats 
will cost." 

" Well, there 's no help for it," returned Sind- 
bad; " so come along." 

They marched into the parlor-car, at the 
door of which they met the conductor, of whom 
the explorer inquired : 

" Have you two good seats for my partner 
and myself? " 

" Just two left, sir. This way, please." 

In a few moments Sindbad and Tom were 
seated in two very comfortable chairs in the 
center of the car. 

"This is something like," said the explorer, 
leaning back with a sigh of relief; "but it 
does worry me to have to pay for these seats 
in pennies." 

" There are some nickels," said Tom, depre- 

" They 're not much better than the pennies. 
Where is the money ? " 

" In my bag." 

" Well, get it out as quick as you can, and 
make up two rolls of a dollar each, — in nickels 




if you can, — and inclose them in paper. Too 
late ! here 's the conductor now." 

As the official paused before Sindbad, the 
great explorer, assuming an indolent air, said : 

'• Pay the man, Thomas, my lad. It 's really 
too much trouble to get my money out. How 
much is it, sir ? " 

" Two dollars," the conductor replied. 

" I leave all these little details to Thomas. 
Thomas, where is the money ? " 

" I '11 get it, sir " ; and Tom began nervously 
fumbling at the lock of his bag, which recep- 
tacle he presently opened, and drew therefrom 
a tin bank. 

" We must break it open, sir," he said. " I 
guess you '11 have to do it. I don't believe my 
hands are strong enough." 

By this time the eyes of every one in that 
part of the car were upon them. With red, 
angry face, Sindbad began work upon the bank. 

" If you 'd only told me it was sealed up in 
this way, I 'd have remained in the other car," 
he hissed in his junior partner's ear. " This is 
awfully embarrassing — good gracious! " 

The explorer had miscalculated the amount 
of force needed to open the bank ; it had sud- 
denly burst open, and its contents were scat- 
tered in every direction. 

Two or three of the passengers laughed out- 
right, several others tittered, and nearly all the 
rest grinned. The conductor stood scowling 
and muttering impatiently, while the two ex- 
plorers scrambled about the floor for the fugi- 
tive coins. 

It happened that the train was going over a 
particularly rough bit of road at the time, and 
the partners had hard work to recover their 
capital. Sindbad twice fell at full length ; and 
Tom, when in the act of rising with a handful 
of pennies, was precipitated into the lap of an 
irritable old lady, and his money was again 
strewed upon the floor. 

" Really, sir," said a stout gentleman, upon 
whose feet Sindbad had come down rather 
heavily, " this is absurd. Why don't you pay 
the fare and let your boy's pennies go ? " 

" My motives do not concern you, sir," re- 
plied Sindbad, redder and angrier than ever; 
" but you shall know them. I desire to incul- 
cate principles of economy in the mind of this 

lad. I want him to appreciate the value of 
money, and to that end I gladly sacrifice my 
own personal ease." 

" And that of every one else in the car," said 
the stout gentleman. " I '11 pay your fare my- 
self if you '11 keep off my feet." 

" I refuse your offer with scorn, sir ! " returned 
Sindbad, hotly. " Thomas, pick up the nickel 
over by that lady's left foot." 

" I '11 come back in half an hour," said the 
conductor, and he stalked away. 

A few minutes later all the coins that could 
be found were collected in Tom's hat. 

"Now, we '11 count them," said Sindbad; 
"or, rather, I will. You hold the hat, and 
don't you drop it, if you value your peace of 

Then the explorer counted out the coins, 
watched closely by all his fellow-passengers. 
There proved to be three hundred and thirty- 
seven cents and nine nickels. 

" Only three dollars and eighty-two cents," 
said Tom, with a long face ; " and I know 
there were four dollars and a half in the bank. 
I 'm sure there are a lot of pennies under that 
old lady's chair on the other side of the aisle. 
Shall I wake her up, and ask her to let me look 
for them ? " 

" Don't you dare do anything of the sort," 
said Sindbad, in a low, fierce tone. " Have n't 
I been humiliated enough already? Have 
you no sense of shame ? Just make two rolls, 
of one dollar each, of these pennies, and don't 
offer any more idiotic suggestions." 

Tom, greatly crestfallen, proceeded to obey 
his partner. When the conductor returned, the 
money was ready for him. 

" I 'm not obliged to take these pennies," he 
said gruffly; "but I '11 do it this time." 

He fiercely punched a number of holes in 
two tickets, which he thrust into Sindbad's 
hand, adding : 

" The next time you travel in my car, sir, I 'd 
be obliged if you 'd provide yourself with a dol- 
lar bill or two." 

Sindbad leaned back in his seat, muttering : 
" In all my fifteen hundred and twenty-one 
voyages I was never so humiliated before! I, 
Sindbad, the world's most famous explorer, 
laughed at by a car full of idiots, and bullied 

i8 9 6.] 


>8 7 

by a common conductor ! This partnership " Well, then," said Sindbad, with the air of a 

business I 'm convinced is n't by any means martyr, " I have only myself to blame, and I 

what it 's cracked up to be ! " won't complain any more. I did think, when 

Tom felt crushed. I first saw you — but it 's no matter." 



" Never mind, sir," he said, with a feeble at- 
tempt at consolation ; " maybe there will be a 
horrible accident before long." 

" No such luck," grumbled Sindbad. " This 
is what I get for associating myself with an 
amateur explorer. Amateur explorer ! Why, I 
begin to think that you 're not even that ! You 
never explored anything in your life, did you ? " 

Tom acknowledged sadly that he never had. 

" I 'm doing the best I can, Mr. Sindbad—" 
Tom began. 

" Oh, I don't doubt that ! " interrupted the 
explorer. " Say no more, I beg of you." 

" I shall get used to your ways after a while, 
and then maybe things will be different," ven- 
tured the junior partner, timidly. 

" Maybe," replied Sindbad; "but, to be hon- 
est with you, I 'm afraid they won't be. This 



seems to be a case of misplaced confidence; or 
perhaps I ought to say, poor judgment. I 'm 
willing to take all the blame on myself, you 
see ; I always was magnanimous, and I suppose 
I always shall be. But this business reminds 
me painfully of my experience with Hindbad ; 
I don't like to say so, because I know it hurts 
your feelings, but I must, really." 

Then the explorer sighed deeply and closed 
his eyes. 

Tom sat silent and crestfallen for a long 
time. He keenly felt his unworthiness to asso- 
ciate so intimately with a man of Sindbad's 
eminence, and he heartily wished himself back 
in Oakdale. 

" And I '11 go back, too," he said to himself, 
" and go to work for Zeb Pettibone. This 
partnership might as well be dissolved first as 
last. I don't seem to take to the exploring busi- 
ness as I thought I would, and I suppose Sind- 
bad will be glad to be rid of me. He 's awfully 
short-tempered, anyhow ; and I don't believe 
we would get along very well together. Then 
it would be very monotonous, too ; for I 'm sure 
no accident will ever happen while / 'm — " 

His soliloquy was cut short by a sudden 
shock which threw him from his chair. All the 
lights were extinguished ; then Tom felt the car 
turn over and fall down — down — down. 

It was with a feeling almost of relief that he 
reflected that an accident had actually hap- 
pened ; he knew how pleased Sindbad would 
be. He was about to call out to the explorer 
when his forehead came in violent contact with 
some hard object, and his senses left him. 

" Ah — coming to, are you ? " were the first 
words he heard when he recovered his con- 
sciousness. " Now is n't this perfectly delight- 
ful ? It really seems like old times, does n't 
it ? But I forget, you were not with me in the 
old Bagdad days." 

" We 're in a boat, are n't we ? " said Tom, 
rather weakly. " I can't see anything." 

" It 's a rather dark night," replied Sindbad ; 
" but the moon may be up before long. Yes, 
we are in a boat — a flat-bottomed rowboat. 
You see, the train ran off the track and dropped 
from a high bridge into a river. Several boats 
shot out from the shore, and this one shot right 
to the spot where I was swimming, with you 
under my left arm. We were hauled on board, 
and here we are. Do you think you are much 
injured ? " 

" No ; my head hurts a little, that 's all," 
said Tom, straining his eyes in a vain attempt 
to distinguish the forms of their rescuers, of 
whom he knew by the sound of the oars there 
were at least two. " Where are they taking us, 
sir ? " 

" Ah, that remains to be seen," answered 
Sindbad, in a mysterious voice. " This is no 
ordinary boat, my lad." 

" Less noise there ! " said a voice out of the 
darkness — a deep, hoarse, harsh voice, the very 
sound of which made Tom quake. 

" Don't be alarmed," whispered Sindbad in 
his ear; " it 's just this sort of thing that we 're 
looking for." Then in a loud tone he said, ad- 
dressing the unseen oarsman : " That 's all 
right, my friend; my partner and I were just 
saying how very kind it was of you to take all 
this trouble on our account." 

" Well, you keep quiet, that 's all," replied 
the unseen. 

" I hardly think you know who I am, my 
good fellow," said the explorer, the tones of 
his voice showing the annoyance he felt. " My 
name is Sindbad — G. W. Sindbad, formerly of 

" Don't you ' good fellow ' me," was the re- 
sponse, uttered in an angry tone. " I know 
who you are well enough ; and let me tell you, 
you are in the biggest scrape of your life — one 
that you won't get out of in a hurry." 

" Is n't this great ? " whispered Sindbad in 
Tom's ear. 

{ To l'c continued.) 



f< lit f»i ; Must Woe 

P>j.r r During 

5 C U o o I h . ■ ' 

S - 

Vol. XXIII.— 37. 



By Frank Welles Calkins. 

My father was one of the earliest settlers in 
Western Iowa. He kept a fur-trading store up 
where old Fort Meade now stands, in the early 
'40's, and the Ponca-Omahas, whose Yillages 
were some miles above, did considerable trading 
with him. 

They were a peaceable, friendly lot; and 
after I returned from school at Detroit, I be- 
came well acquainted with some of the chiefs 
who came to bring furs in exchange for goods. 

Among these Indians was old Wa-sah-be Hu- 
ghe (Little Black Bear), or Little Bear, as we 
used to call him, a sociable old fellow. He 
could talk English fairly well for an Indian, 
and was a man of consequence in his tribe. 

It was in the second year after my return 
from school, that I arranged with Little Bear 
to go with his band on a fall buffalo-hunt. I 
was then seventeen or thereabouts, fond of 
hunting, and of a wild life. 

We set out in September, more than a hun- 
dred men, women, and children, myself the 
only white person in the outfit. I drove a 
team of horses to a light wagon. Little Bear 
also had a wagon, as had two or three others ; 
but most of the Indians used pack and saddle 
ponies, with the usual travois-poles dragging 
behind. We drove a herd of hunting-ponies. 
In fact, we represented the motley and bar- 
barous appearance of Indians on the move. 

It was yet early for the buffalo to begin to 
move southward from the upper Missouri ; and 
though several scouts were on the alert each 
day, we sighted only two or three considerable 
bunches during the first week. We succeeded in 
surrounding one band, and killed about thirty. 
It was exciting while it lasted — a kind of mixed 
melee in which racing, plunging, shooting, and 
yelling indulged one's taste for adventure to the 
fullest extreme. After the hunt, the meat was 
cut up and carried to camp by the squaws, who 

had followed at a distance, while we hunters — 
some fifty of us — rode ahead with a tremen- 
dous flourish. 

Upon this first hunt I killed one young bull. 
I kept a small hump steak, the tongue, and 
hide, and, cutting the rest into about equal 
parts, gave one to each head of a family in 
the band. This earned for me the name of 
Washushe, meaning " good " or " generous," 
by which I was known among the Omahas 
ever after that. 

It was the next morning after this hunt that 
the chief, Little Bear, came to my tent, just as 
I had finished my steak, biscuit, and coffee. 
He brought two wolfskin disguises, which I 
had before seen in his tepee. Each was made 
of two wolf-pelts sewed together, with mounted 
nose and tail, and there were arm-holes with 
short skin sleeves, and leggings for the thighs, 
which came nearly down to the knees, the 
whole covering fastened to the body with deer- 
skin thongs. 

He had before promised to take me on a 
" wolf-hunt " after buffalo, and he now put on 
the largest of the coverings, and manoeuvered 
about in front of my tent, showing the various 
attitudes of the wolf, in shambling along, in 
trotting, and in sneaking upon its prey. 

His squaw, who was wielding her wezkjjaba 
(fleshing-knife) upon an upturned buffalo-pelt 
pinned to the ground with wooden pegs, stopped 
her work and grinned approval. He certainly 
mimicked the wolf well : and the disguise, ex- 
cepting the legs and the size, was perfect. 

" Hoogh ! " he said, when he had shown me 
how to act in crawling up to game, " we go 
hunt um tewan that way"; pointing to the north- 
west up the creek. 

I was glad to go upon a still-hunt; for, to tell 
the truth, the mixed hurly-burly of the usual 
Ponca method, and its useless dangers, did not 



recommend it to me when I had had time to 
reflect after the excitement was over. 

When Little Bear and I mounted our ponies 
and rode out that morning, the camp was in an 
uproar, as usual in the preparation for a hunt. 
A scout had come in with news of a big herd 
to the eastward, and the Indians were running 
in ponies, saddling and cinching them on all 
hands, and there was much bucking and plung- 
ing among the wild and skittish ones, as usual. 
Squaws were hustling about at the command 
of their lords and masters, and young lads, in 
half-leggings and short shirts, were rushing to 
and fro, making a great parade of helping to get 
the hunters started. 

Little Bear must have told his leaders of the 
proposed hunt with me, for no one paid the 
slightest attention to our going out. 

We jogged directly up the little valley for an 
hour or more ; and then, in rounding a point of 
the hill, sighted a large band of buffalo feeding 
among the ravines, and upon the slopes on the 
opposite side of the valley. There was an im- 
mense number in sight, but, as the high grounds 
were covered as far over as we could see, we 
knew there must be more beyond. 

Little Bear grunted with huge satisfaction, 
and gave me to understand in hurried words 
of Ponca and pigeon English that the big herds 
were coming down from the north. 

We hustled our ponies into a ravine near at 
hand, and tied them to some bull-berry bushes. 
Then, carrying our disguises and guns, the 
chief with his bow and arrows at his back, we 
slipped down the ravine into the creek channel, 
keeping entirely out of sight of the herd. The 
wind was fairly in our favor, and we kept along 
the bed of the stream, in which ran a little 
trickling brook at the bottom, until we reached 
the mouth of a dry run leading across the valley 
and through the middle of the herd. There 
were such runs and ravines cutting back into 
the hills every half mile or so. 

Up this gully we went at a jog-trot, bending 
low, until it became so shallow that we could 
begin to see the buffalo upon the hills above. 

The chief then squatted and motioned me 
down. We put on the wolf-skins, he taking 
the largest ; for, despite his name, he was a 
large and powerfully made man. 

Adjusting the eye-holes so that we could see 
plainly, we crawled out upon the open ground 
upon our hands and knees. Almost the first 
thing that happened to me was to get one of 
my knees filled with cactus spikes ; and while 
I writhed about trying to pull them out, I heard 
Little Bear growling under his breath, " Hoogh! 
tewan heap plenty — we kill heap ! " 

He had steered clear of the cactus. As soon 
as the pain would let me look about me, I saw 
that we were, indeed, in the midst of a " heap " 
of buffalo. The hills on both sides were now 
freckled with them, some feeding and some 
lying clown ; while up the ravine the high lands 
swarmed with them as far as one could see. 

On both sides of the run there were half a hun- 
dred buffalo, perhaps, scattered about close at 
hand, some of them within bow-shot. These last, 
which were cropping the feather-grass, stopped 
occasionally to gaze curiously at our advance. 

We shambled slowly along, the chief in front, 
and evidently determined to crawl into the very 
midst of the herd before beginning execution. 

We passed within a dozen yards of a big bull, 
who snorted at our advance and shook his huge 
shaggy head angrily. Then he followed us and 
began to paw the ground and bellow in a 
hoarse, muttering note. Glancing over my 
shoulder I noticed that he was even threaten- 
ing attack. Little Bear, too, had halted, and 
was looking back, I thought, uneasily; but he 
moved on again when the bull came no closer, 
while I, imitating his wolfish movements as 
closely as possible, followed after him. I saw 
that the groups of buffalo were growing more 
numerous on all sides, and a score of them 
were coming toward us with their shaggy fronts 
lifted. My heart thumped hard against my ribs 
with excitement. 

" Let 's shoot some of them," I whispered. 
At that instant a number of the bulls began to 
bellow, and to throw dirt with their hoofs. 

Their noise and stir started a herd down 
the nearest hill, and we saw a host of them 
come tearing down the slope, with long, lung- 
ing jumps, some of them flinging their heels 
and tails high in the air, jumping sidewise, and 
bawling in a mad, freakish way, just as cattle 
sometimes plunge down a hill, half in play, 
half in a state of nervous excitement. There 



was now a perfect bedlam of noise, and clouds 
of dust were rising on all hands. The chief 
motioned to me to shoot. 

I carried a short, thick-barreled buffalo-gun — 
it was before the days of breech-loaders — which 
threw an ounce and a half slug. I aimed 
at a bull some fifty feet away, who offered a 
broadside shot in his pawing. The heavy ball 
knocked him off his feet, and the next moment 
he was at the last gasp. 

The chief also fired his rifle, with what effect 
I did not see, for our shots did not startle even 
the nearest animals, so great was the noise of 
their own bawlings, and so thick the cloud of 
dust they had raised. A mad craze seemed 
suddenly to have possessed the whole herd, for 
a great crowd had pressed down out of the 
ravine, and hundreds were plunging down the 
bluffs. The situation had suddenly become 
startling and dangerous. 

The chief, in alarm, sprang to his feet, and 
threw the wolf-skin from his head. I did the 
same. He had evidently counted on scatter- 
ing the buffalo, and frightening them off by our 
first shots. 

Instead, a tumbling mass of them had gath- 
ered about the animal which I had shot, and, 
excited to greater frenzy than ever by the 
smell of blood, were filling the air with hoarse, 
deep, quavering roars, which made the ground 
tremble under us. 

The dust from the multiplying numbers 
which surged in toward us, pervaded as it was 
with alkali, set me into a paroxysm of sneezing 
and coughing in spite of my intense alarm. It 
now enveloped us in so thick a cloud that we 
could practically see nothing. Suddenly the 
chief seized me by the arm. " Come," he said, 
" we go quick ! " and we started at a run. We 
dodged hither and thither to get out of the way 
of plunging, bawling animals, many of which 
lunged past within arm's reach. 

The dust had grown continuously thicker, and 
my eyes, filled with the smarting alkali, failed me 
utterly before we had run fifty yards. I was again 
seized by a violent fit of coughing and sneezing. 

I shouted to Little Bear, between my cough- 
ings, that I could not see. He answered only, 
"We go quick — quick!" and keeping a tight 

grip upon my arm, jerked me this way and 
that, as we rushed ahead. 

But, active and powerful as he was, he could 
not save me in my blindness from collision. I 
was hit by one of the huge animals, and knocked 
over. The creature struck me on the left side, 
and I was wrenched from the chief's grasp ; 
and sent rolling over and over in the dust. In 
fact, I was knocked breathless, half-stunned, 
and could not have arisen at once of my own 
accord. I should have been run over and 
crushed but for the chief. As it was, I just 
had sense enough to know that I was jerked 
from the ground, tossed upward and borne 
forward upon his shoulders. 

He ran like a deer, carrying me as if I had 
been a papoose, jumping and dodging this way 
and that, among the throng of animals, whose 
rumbling tread sounded in my ears like the 
muttering of thunder. 

Twice he was run into and thrown, and we 
both measured our full lengths ; but he was on 
his feet again in an instant, and, lifting me as 
before, darted ahead, seemingly unhurt. How 
he managed to keep his eyesight and his bear- 
ings in that choking cloud, and among that ex- 
cited mass of animals, is, and always will be, a 
mystery to me. 

But he did it. 

He carried me out of that bellowing, crazy 
crowd of animals, and set me upon my feet 
upon the hill above them, giving utterance 
to a huge grunt of satisfaction when he found 
that I could stand. 

When I had rubbed the dust out of my eyes, 
somewhat, I saw him grinning humorously at 
me. The herds had rolled on across the valley, 
and were going over the opposite hills. 

Undoubtedly I owed my life to Little Bear, 
and I was grateful to him. On returning to 
the buffalo which I had killed, we found my 
rifle with stock and locks badly broken and 
crushed ; the gun was ruined; and even the 
tough carcass of the dead animal had been so 
trampled as to be almost beyond recognition. 

There was plenty of exciting work after this, 
and we killed many buffalo in our wolfskin 
disguises. But we were careful thereafter not 
to be caught in the midst of charging herds. 



{.4 Story with two Sequels. A second sequel to " The Fairport Nine") 

By Noah Brooks. 

A sequel is a continuation of a story ; it is 
a second story that comes after another one, to 
add to it what could not be told in the first 
place. But a story that I once told the readers 
of St. Nicholas is a story with two sequels. 

Fifteen years ago, as certain grown-up people 
may remember, I wrote for the readers of 
St. Nicholas, who are now the grown-ups, a 
story called " The Fairport Nine." It was all 
about a party of boys who had a base-ball club 
in Fairport, Maine, and who made of them- 
selves a little company of soldiers. In the 
story, they played base-ball matches with the 
" White Bears," a rival company of boys ; and 
they paraded as a militia company, with a fife 
and drum and flag. It was this flag that made 
it possible to have sequels to the story of " The 
Fairport Nine," as you shall hear. 

The boys in " The Fairport Nine " were real 
boys, and I was one of them. We lived in the 
town of Castine, Maine, and I merely changed 
the name of that dear old town to Fairport 
when I wrote the story. And when I told 
how a flag was presented to us, as a company, 
by some of the grown-up girls of the village, 
and how I, as the standard-bearer of the Fair- 
port Nine, received the flag, and made a little 
speech in reply to the grown-up girl who pre- 
sented it, I was telling only what actually hap- 
pened so many years before. The boys' 
company paraded with the flag in 1840; the 
story was printed in St. Nicholas in 1880 
— forty years afterward. 

Seven years after the story was printed, I 
found the copies of the written speeches de- 
livered by the standard-bearer and by the young 
lady who presented the flag to us. For, as I 
was the little standard-bearer, then aged ten 
years, the written speeches, now yellow with 
age, had been kept in the family through all 
these years. Meanwhile, as the years were 
spinning away into the dim and far-away past, 

the boys of that small militia company had grown 
up and had taken their part and lot in life ; and 
most of them had done their whole duty by 
their country when the country needed help. 

So, in 1887, seven years after the story of 
" The Fairport Nine " had been printed in 
St. Nicholas, I wrote the first sequel of that 
tale, in which was related the finding of the 
papers on which were written the speeches 
made when the flag was presented ; and I 
took that opportunity to tell something about 
the boys who had grown to be men and 
had profited by the lessons they received in 
their native town of Castine so many years 
before. That sequel was printed in St. Nich- 
olas in March, 1887, nine years ago, and was 
entitled " A Lesson in Patriotism." 

In the course of time, as we grew up, the 
boys' company of militia paraded no more ; 
but the flag presented to us was kept in my 
custody as standard-bearer of the " Fairport 
Nine." When it disappeared, I do not know ; 
but after a while, when I looked for it, it could 
not be found; and, as other things more im- 
portant to a growing boy than a boys' flag 
began to come into my life, I forgot all about 

And yet, it was a very beautiful flag — at 
least, we thought so. It was made of white 
cotton cloth, and was four feet long and two 
feet wide. In an oval line on that flag were 
set twelve red stars ; and in the middle of the oval 
were three stars, two blue and one red. The 
flag was bordered with a bright red worsted 
fringe which came from the cabin curtains of 
the good ship " Canova," built on the Penob- 
scot River, in 1823, and owned in Castine. 
When the ship was refitted in our port, about 
the time of which I am writing, the cabin fur- 
nishings were changed, and the big girls who 
made our flag were allowed to take the curtain- 
fringe ; and, having beautified the flag with 


2 95 

that, they further decorated it with a red cord 
and two handsome tassels, which, after many a 
foreign voyage in the cabin of the Canova, 
were fastened on the flagstaff of the Fairport 
Nine, and dangled in the breeze, making a 
very brave show indeed. 

I do not believe that any real soldier in the 
ranks of any army looks upon the flag of his 
regiment proudly fluttering over his head with 
greater pride than that with which we boys 
looked on the white flag with its group of red 
and blue stars. 
And yet, when 
it disappeared 
from my bed- 
room, where 
it was safely 
laid away, no- 
body missed it 
until it had 
been gone for 
a long time. 
The truth is 
that the sports 
of childhood 
had been left 
far behind in 
the real battle 
of life. 

But about a 
year ago a very 
strange thing happened. The pastor of the 
village church lives in the house that was 
formerly owned and occupied by the father 
of two of my playmates. Neither of those 
boys was a member of the Fairport Nine, 
however; one of them was older than any 
of us, and the other was much younger than 
any of us. Their father has been dead sev- 
eral years, and the present tenant of the house 
in which the boys had lived had occasion to 
make some changes inside of the building. 
One day, while removing some of the laths 
and plastering of a partition, the good pastor 
was considerably surprised to find in the space 
between two walls of lath-and-plaster a folded 
bundle of cloth. He drew it forth from its 
hiding-place, and shook out its dusty folds. It 
was the long-lost flag of the Fairport Nine ! 

Was n't this a famous find ? And how did 
the pastor know that he had found the flag of 
the Fairport Nine ? He had read in St. 
Nicholas a description of the flag, as it was 
written and put into a picture in 1887, and he 
knew it as soon as he saw it ; and his children, 
living in the town where the Fairport Nine had 
flourished in 1840, had read the story as it was 
printed in 1880, and the sequel as it was printed 
in 1887. I suppose they will read this other 
sequel when it is printed in 1896, although they 


are now young ladies, as big as the big girls 
that gave us the flag in 1840, and which is 
now so wonderfully restored to the writer, who 
was the standard-bearer. 

The flag of the Fairport Nine is still in a 
good state of preservation, although its colors 
are faded and its white field is yellow with 
old age. It hangs in the study of the old man 
who carried it so proudly fifty-six years ago, 
when he was a very small boy. And as he 
looks on its faded folds, and recalls the names 
and lives of those who marched under the fly- 
ing colors so long ago, he remembers with 
thankfulness that every one of the little sol- 
diers has done his whole duty by his country, 
and that some of them were permitted to give 
to their beloved land the last offering that man 
can give — life on the field of battle. 



' s 


IP.-: ■ ^Si«IM».MMf#lS51^fe^' 

By Anna Robeson Brown. 

The Lord Lieutenant's daughter, a little maid of ten, 
On Tower Green she played at ball, beloved by Tower men; 
Her merry face, beneath its coif of silk and string of pearls, 
Made her, in all her bright attire, the pink of little girls. 
For every stately guardsman she had a gentle word, 
And often in the barrack-room her prattling voice was heard ; 
While, to the prisoners' weary eyes, whene'er her head was seen 
Beyond their rusty bars, it made a sunlight on the green. 
Bess to her mother clung in fear as thro' the Traitor's Gate 
'Twixt many a line of armed men two prisoners passed in state : 
Two boys — the eldest hardly twelve — with train of men and guards, 
Who walked with heavy tread around the mighty walls and wards ; 
Grim, scowling men who did not cry, as some were wont to do, 
" Good-morrow, little Mistress Bess ! How fares the world with you ? " 

One day Bess crept from home by stealth ; she took her simple toys 
Into a shady courtyard nook, well hid and far from noise. 
And while she played she glanced about, and saw above her head 
A deep cut window in the wall, its bars with rust grown red, 
Grasping at these, two children's hands. Two pairs of merry eyes 
Looked down from 'neath the flaxen locks, and laughed at her surprise. 

" Who are you, maid ? " a quick voice cried, imperious and gay. 

"Bess Brackenbury, please, fair sir; I only came to play. 
My father 's Lord Lieutenant here ; he keeps the Tower keys, 
And guards the prisoners safely. But who are you, sir, please ? " 
Vol. XXIII.— 38. =97 




Then quoth the blue-eyed boy, still bent 
above the rusty sill, 
" I would the Lord Lieutenant had others 
at his will ! 

Stay, child; that daisy pluck for me — a grass- 
blade — anything ! 

Within these walls no token comes of winter 
or of spring. 

Some day I '11 sure requite 
you — I am a royal 

Now English maids are 
loyal as English 
hearts are free; 

So, "Yea, my liege! " quoth 
little Bess (a court- 
bred maid was she ! ) ; 

She made a sweeping 
courtesy, — her care- 
ful mother's pride, — ^!«^* 

And plucked the daisy - ^*4^- >?■- 

daintily, its curling " gs^------^^ 

leaves beside. 

Alas ! too far above her 
head the straining 
hands were set ; 

And though on tiptoe high 
she stood, no nearer 
could she get. 

And so the blue-eyed boys 
above, the brown- 
eyed maid below, 

Stayed many a minute 
chattering till little 
Bess must go. 

Day after day the rusty 
grate by boyish hands 
was pressed, 

Day after day the court- 
yard nook rang loud 
with chat and jest, 

Until dear friends the chil- 
dren grew; all state 
was laid aside, — 

Edward was " Ned," and Richard " Dick," 
and Bess " the Royal Bride " ! 

For Edward vowed, if e'er released from 
prison cell was he, 

Bess Brackenbury should be his Queen, and 
never maid but she ! 

Thus days and weeks sped quickly by ; each 

hour was full and fair. 
One day Bess to the window came, and no 

two heads were there. 

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She waited till the noonday sun shone hot 

on Tower Green ; 
She waited till the sunset-gun — till the new 

moon was seen. 


> 99 

Her mother hunted wildly with many a sob 

and cry : 
" Oh, woe this day for England's babes if three 

fair children die ! " 
But Bessie lingered, sobbing ; she listened 

'neath the grate; 
Cried first, " It is too early ! " and then, " It 

is too late ! " 

She sat upon the cold, gray stones, and 
hugged the precious toys 

Which she had brought to show her friends, 
who had no kindred joys ! 

She waited, hungry, weary; when, sudden, to 
the spot 

Her father — wild-eyed, white-faced, trem- 
bling-handed, hoping not — 

Came, and caught her to his bosom. " Oh, 
naughty daughter Bess ! 

What art thou doing in this place so far 
from our distress ? " 

Poor Bessie on his shoulder sobbed out her 

hidden pain. 
" Oh, father dear, they did not come ; I waited 

long in vain ! " 
But when he heard the story, he turned away 

his face; 

She might not see the sudden tears that 
crept and dropped apace. 
" They will not come again, my Bess ; thy play- 
mates are not there ; 

And England's coming years shall mark this 
day for England's prayer ! 

Thy playmates 'wait for thee, my dear; and 
some day thou shalt know 

How every loyal English heart shares in thy 
childish woe ! " 

Bess wondered, did not understand, wept for 

her friends full sore; 
And gladly in her mother's arms saw home 

and bed once more. 

But still, in long years after, to her grand- 
child on her knee 

She told the same old story of the Tower 
playmates three ; 

The little 'prisoned princes, her friends and 
comrades dear; 

And their wicked Uncle " Crookback," whose 
crimes caused many a tear. 

While often, when the fire-light rose, some 
wondering youngster said, 
" Grandmother, tell the story of the King with 
whom you played ! " 


By Margaret Johnson. 

Come to me, my precious Polly, — put away 

that tiresome dolly ; 
Let me tell you what I dreamed here in my 

chair beside the door : 
Such a dream! — the day befitting; for I dozed 

while you were sitting 
Counting up your Valentines, dear, in the 

sunshine on the floor. 

Now what can a gruff old codger like myself, 

your crusty lodger, 
Have to do with youth and romance, ' ; loves 

and doves," and holidays ? 
Can you look at me, unwinking, and declare 

you are not thinking 
Some such disrespectful thought, Miss, with 

your wide, transparent gaze ? 

Yet to me, gray-haired and stooping as I am, 

from Dreamland trooping, 
Fair as when they first wore blushes (you may 

doubt me if you please!), 

All the pretty Mauds and Marys of a hun- 
dred Februaries 

Came a-tripping, dancing, curtsying, bright as 
blossoms in a breeze — 

Every damsel for whose wooing ever came a 

missive suing 
In the golden words of good St. Valentine's 

enchanted art : 
Every maid at whom the cunning Cupid, on 

his errands running, 
Ever on this day in elfin mischief aimed his 

airy dart. 

There was Marian, tall and stately, pacing 

down the room sedately, 
With her stiff brocade and satin brushing 

Chloe's muslin gown; 
There was Nell, the farmer's lassie, fresh from 

fields and pastures grassy ; 
Proud Inez, and Sue, the sailor's sweetheart, 

with the sea-winds brown. 



Moll, the milkmaid, buxom, blowzy, with her As I gazed, in look and feature of each 

curly locks all frowzy; pretty, blushing creature 

Sweet Priscilla, looking shyly from her rosy, Something — here 's the marvel — slowly I 

quaint calash ; began to recognize. 

Saucy Mab, romantic Celia, dove-like Ruth, Under bonnet, hood, or wimple, every face 

and grave Cornelia, with smile and dimple 

Bashful Bess, and Kate, her black eyes kindling Bent my Polly's gaze upon me, looked at me 

with a roguish flash. with Polly's eyes. 1 

Maids from castle, cot, and kitchen, rustic Clad in modern garb or olden, black her 

Joan, and Gertrude, rich in hair, or brown, or golden, 

Bygone splendors, high, historic, of an ancient Still each little maid my Polly's own beloved 

place and time ; likeness wore. 

And a modern girl from college, turning from In a hundred forms, each sweeter than the 

her hoarded knowledge last, I turned to greet her, 

To peruse, with eyes of laughter, some one's And awoke — to see you sitting in the sun- 
brave but halting rhyme. shine on the floor ! 

Such a stir of garments flowing, ribbons flying, Ah, my sweetheart, did the seeming of my 

ringlets blowing; all-unconscious dreaming, 

Such a clicking, gay and quick, in dancing steps, After all, but prove the power of Love's in- 

of high-heeled shoes ! imitable art ? 

Such a rain of glances, pettish, tender, trust- And does every loyal lover in all faces fair 

ful, arch, coquettish, — discover 

How among that bevy could a poor bewil- But the one, the face beloved, that is mirrored 

dered bachelor choose ? in his heart ? 

My old eyes were dazzled fairly. Sure, so Is there something in all loving, laughing eyes 

bright a vision rarely their kinship proving — 

Even upon this day of wonders may a mor- Some sweet, common look forever of all love 

tal man behold. the seal and sign ? 

And I loved them all. Nay, Polly, never Or — but there, we will not quarrel ! Kiss me, 

look so melancholy ; dear ; I '11 skip the moral. 

For the strangest part, and sweetest, of my Take me, Polly, for your ancient but devoted 

story is not told. 

Valentine ! 

When the leaves are gone, the bints are gone, 

And V is very silent at the dawn. 
Snowbird, nuthatch, chickadee, — 
Come and cheer the lonely tree! 

When the leaves are gone, the flowers are gone, 
Fast asleep beneath the ground withdrawn. 
Floivers of snow, so soft and flue — 
Clothe the shivering branch and vine ! 

" When the leaves are gone, where are they 
gone ? " was once asked me by an intelligent 

" Let us go and see," I answered. 

So my young questioner and I set forth on a 
tour of investigation. It was a sunshiny after- 
noon, the last day of November. First, we 
went through the orchard, where a few scatter- 
ing leaves still clung to the gnarly branches. 
And the ground was as bare as though a thou- 
sand thousand leaves had not sunned and aired 
themselves, and drunk the sweet dew, in pleas- 
ant comradeship, all spring and summer. But 
as we came to the zigzag fence of rails, which 
bounded the orchard, we found that the broom 
of the wind had swept into the fence-corners 
the missing leaves, where they rustled under 
our feet, and whispered mysterious things. 

From the orchard we went down the lane 
and into the woods, stopping to examine what- 
ever interested us by the way. In places sure 
to be shielded from the cold winds of late au- 
tumn, we found blue violets, the foster- chil- 

and some gone to seed. The blossoms would 
be only one inch from the ground, while the 
feathery seed-balls would be as high again, 
showing that the stem had grown after the 
flower ceased blooming. Bright as were the 
flowers, they grew so near the ground that we 
thought they shrank away as though they had 
seen the whip of winter lifted to strike them ; 
and, indeed, it was the cold that caused them 
to be so stunted. And yet, so brave and hardy 
is the dandelion, that one will find scattered 
blooms about the pastures even in late Decem- 
ber, and the shining seed-balls hugging the 
ground so closely that they might be taken for 
silver luck-pennies. 

We stopped to look at the downy content of 
that sober plant, the mullen. Many plants had 
the central leaves folded continuously one about 
another, until a sort of large, gray-green bud was 
formed ; and in one of these buds a bee was 
taking an afternoon nap, snugly sheltered from 
the air, which was growing somewhat chilly. 
We thought that any prudent insect might find 
a comfortable winter-home by asking the mul- 
len to open its velvet leaves just a little, and 
then to fold them tightly around the wanderer ! 
And while we were speaking, a bluebottle fly 
went humming past us, as if to say he had no 
mind yet to be asking shelter of any one ! 

By a still, sunshiny pool, we noticed the 
handsome stonecrops as they seemed to wade 
from the margin into the water. They were a 
rich coral-red, showing off well among the faded 

dren of old November, who had strayed away weeds and withered rushes. We found life- 
from their own dear mother, May. There were everlasting still fragrant when we crumpled it 
also dandelions along the lane, some in bloom, in our hands ; and we thought the dry, silvery 



calyxes of the asters almost as pretty in their 
star-shapes as the flowers themselves had been ; 
while the goldenrod now stood with its still 
gray plumes in all the angles of the fence. We 
had also to notice what surprised us not a little 
— that all the berry brambles had gathered 
along their red stems a whitish bloom, some- 
thing like that which covers the purple of ripe 
grapes, or the crimson of the peach. We 
thought this white coating might have been in- 
tended as a sort of furry protection against the 
coming cold of winter. 

The border of the woods wore a sleepy look 
of contentment, as if there all were quite ready 
for winter. We found the clematis trailing over 
low shrubs and weaving in and out among the 
thickets. Like the goldenrod in its old age, 
the clematis had put on silvery plumes in place 
of flowers, and we bore away with us for deco- 
rations at home some of the graceful festoons 
of this vine. Still more ambitious than the 
clematis was the greenbrier (a species of smi- 
lax), which had gone climbing quite above our 
heads, and had suspended its clusters of small 
green-black berries, which might have been 
supposed to be fairy grapes, and which we 
hoped some late-lingering bird would find and 
eat, on a hungry winter morning now not far 
away. And while we were saying this, a num- 
ber of little people in gray and black, as fantas- 
tic as maskers, came fluttering into the nooses 
of the clematis and greenbrier. " Dee ! dee ! 
DEE ! what do you here, coming without per- 
mission into our territory ? " There are not so 
many words in the chickadee language, but 
such as there are are most expressive, and we 
soon beat a retreat. Not long after we en- 
tertained ourselves by playing hide-and-seek 
around a great tree-trunk with a nuthatch. 
Now, the nuthatch has the advantage of his 
cousin the woodpecker in one respect — he can 
go around the trunk of a tree head downward 
as well as in the upright position ; and he was, 
on this occasion, full of quick and cunning 

While still not far in the woods, we came 
to a dear, hospitable nook under a protecting 
bank, where a tinkling spring, descending to 
meet a quiet stream, kept the mosses green, 
though it was so near frosty December. As we 

listened to the gentle music of the spring, — 
"tinkle, tinkle," — the same notes came re- 
peated from a distance to us. We had to 
think twice before we decided that what we 
heard was the sound of sheep-bells in a pasture 
some fields away. Then we said that, for those 
who listen well, the various voices in nature — 
both living and unconscious voices — have 
much that is in common ; and my sweet 
child-comrade told me how she had once 
heard a sparrow singing like a running brook 
as he perched on a willow branch, close by ! 

As we wound along the little woodland 
stream that slipped so softly by we could 
scarcely hear it, we saw what had become of 
hosts and hosts of leaves of all varieties. The 
little stream had drowned them without a 
murmur ; and now they lay, brown, red, and 
amber, on the shallow bed, looking brighter 
than when they fluttered, dry and rustling, 
along the ground. There were great leaves 
of the sycamore (which must be a thirsty tree, 
since it is so often found by running water), 
leaves broad as a giant's hand, brown as leather, 
and with the smell of wet leather. There were, 
also, large grape-vine leaves, with curious pat- 
terns wrought upon them by some insect — 
scallops and scrollwork and fantastic zigzag 
lines. There were dark-red oak-leaves, many 
of which had round little balls growing upon 
them ; and in every ball was the egg of an 
insect called the gall-fly. Then we recalled 
how the stately wands of the goldenrod which 
we had noticed in the lane would often have a 
round, very hard woody growth in the middle 
of the stem. This, too, was a winter home — 
the cradle of a grub that would become in 
time a gauzy-winged fly. 

But we had come to find out, when the 
leaves are gone, where they are gone. Wher- 
ever there was a slight hollow in the woods, it 
would be so filled up with leaves as to be level 
with the higher ground ; and we would often 
heedlessly go over our ankles in the brown drifts; 
and wherever was an old hollow stump, there 
the leaves would be stored — much as though 
some tidy gardener had found this means of dis- 
posing of them. No wonder, with such a com- 
fortable coverlet above them, the seeds are 
kept warm and alive, so that when spring 




comes these old stumps sometimes show us 
lovely miniature gardens. "Yes," I said to my 
little friend, " you may call the leaves nature's 
patchwork quilt, which she tucks down cozily 
around her darlings when they first go asleep, 
so that they need never be chilled." 

" If the old leaves could only know how much 
good they do, I should think it would make 
them very happy, and they would n't mind so 
much having to leave their homes on the trees," 
returned my bright young comrade. 

But now the wind began to rise, and the 
bare tree-tops to sigh all together, and strange, 
small noises here and there to cause us to look 

about, to discover if any one was coming be- 
hind us. There would be danger of falling 
branches, or of some old tree itself falling if the 
wind should blow hard; and so we must be 
gone. As we made our way out, far through 
the maple aisles, sunward, we saw the leaves in 
great quantities suddenly lifted on the wind. 
Just for a moment they seemed like bright 
shifting sands, or like the ripples of a yellow 
stream flickering in the sunshine. We knew 
that when the wind ceased to blow one might 
know which way it had blown ; for the leaves 
would be left pointing in one direction, stems 
side by side, and the tips of the leaves likewise. 


By Robert Louis Stevenson. 


[Begun in the December number.] 


My dear Hoskyns : I am kept away in a 
cupboard because everybody has the Influenza; 
I never see anybody at all, and never do any- 
thing whatever except to put ink on paper up 
here in my room. So what can I find to write 
to you ? You, who are going to school, and 
getting up in the morning to go bathing, and 
having (it seems to me) rather a fine time of it 
in general ? 

You ask if we have seen Arick ? Yes, your 
mother saw him at the head of a gang of 
boys, and looking fat, and sleek, and well-to- 
do. I have an idea that he misbehaved here, 
because he was homesick for the other Black 
Boys, and did n't know how else to get back 
to them. Well, he has got them now, and I 
hope he likes it better than I should. 

I read the other day something that I thought 
would interest so great a sea bather as yourself. 
You know that the fishes that we see, and catch, 

go only a certain way down into the sea. Be- 
low a certain depth there is no life at all. The 
water is as empty as the air is above a certain 
height. Even the shells of dead fishes that come 
down there are crushed into nothing by the 
huge weight of the water. Lower still, in the 
places where the sea is profoundly deep, it ap- 
pears that life begins again. People fish up in 
dredging-buckets loose rags and tatters of crea- 
tures that hang together all right down there with 
the great weight holding them in one, but come 
all to pieces as they are hauled up. Just what 
they look like, just what they do or feed upon, 
we shall never find out. Only that we have 
some flimsy fellow-creatures down in the very 
bottom of the deep seas, and cannot get them up 
except in tatters. It must be pretty dark where 
they live, and there are no plants or weeds, and 
no fish come down there, or drowned sailors 
either, from the upper parts, because these are 
all mashed to pieces by the great weight long 
before they get so far, or else come to a place 
where perhaps they float. But I daresay a 



cannon sometimes comes careering solemnly 
down, and circling about like a dead leaf or 
thistledown; and then the ragged fellows go and 
play about the cannon and tell themselves all 
kinds of stories about the fish higher up and their 
iron houses, and perhaps go inside and sleep, 
and perhaps dream of it all like their betters. 

Of course you know a cannon down there 
would be quite light. Even in shallow water, 
where men go down with a diving-dress, 
they grow so light that they have to hang 
weights about their necks, and have their boots 
loaded with twenty pounds of lead — as I know 
to my sorrow. And with all this, and the hel- 
met, which is heavy enough of itself to anyone 
up here in the thin air, they are carried about 
like gossamers, and have to take every kind of 
care not to be upset and stood upon their 
heads. I went down once in the dress, and 
speak from experience. But if we could get 
down for a moment near where the fishes are, 
we should be in a tight place. Suppose the 
water not to crush us (which it would), we 
should pitch about in every kind of direction ; 
every step we took would carry us as far as if 
we had seven-league boots ; and we should 
keep flying head over heels, and top over bot- 
tom, like the liveliest clowns in the world. 

Well, sir, here is a great deal of words put 
down upon a piece of paper, and if you think 
that makes a letter, why, very well ! And if 
you don't, I can't help it. For I have nothing 
under heaven to tell you. 

So, with kindest wishes to yourself, and Louie, 
and Aunt Nellie, believe me, 

Your affectionate Uncle Louis. 

Now here is something more worth telling 
you. This morning at six o'clock I saw all the 
horses together in the front paddock, and in 
a terrible ado about something. Presently I 
saw a man with two buckets on the march, and 
knew where the trouble was — the cow! The 
whole lot cleared to the gate but two — Donald, 
the big white horse, and my Jack. They stood 
solitary, one here, one there. I began to get 
interested, for I thought Jack was off his 
feed. In came the man with the bucket and 
all the ruck of curious horses at his tail. Right 
round he went to where Donald stood (D) and 
poured out a feed, and the majestic Donald ate 
Vol. XXIII.— 39. 

it, and the ruck of common horses followed the 
man. On he went to the second station, Jack's, 
(J in the plan) and poured out a feed, and the 
fools of horses went in with him to the next 


place (A in the plan). And behold as the train 
swung round, the last of them came curiously 
too near Jack; and Jack left his feed and 
rushed upon this fool with a kind of outcry, 
and the fool fled, and Jack returned to his feed; 
and he and Donald ate theirs with glory, while 
the others were still circling round for fresh 

Glory be to the name of Donald and to 
the name of Jack, for they had found out 
where the foods were poured, and each took 
his station and waited there, Donald at the first 
of the course for his, Jack at the second 
station, while all the impotent fools ran round 
and round after the man with his buckets ! 

R. L. S. 

[Mr. Stevenson tells in the next letter how the 
demon "Tu" took up his quarters in the stable, 
and made things very lively for Mr. and Mrs. 
Talolo. Samoans believe that all sickness comes 
from the evil influence of such bogies. 

The " Soldier Room," as it was called, in 
which Talolo and his wife took refuge from 
the demon Tu, was where Mr. Stevenson and 
I used to play a very interesting game with 
tin soldiers. We called it the " war-game," or 
" kriegspiel," for it was much the same as the 
mimic campaigns played by German officers in 
Europe. It was the most elaborate game I 
ever heard of, and the longest, for sometimes 
a single war lasted two months. A map was 
drawn on the floor, with rivers, mountains, 
towns, and roads all marked in different-colored 
chalk, and the two antagonists, with foot-rules, 
pen, and paper, and some five hundred tin 
soldiers apiece, occupied the territory assigned 
them. Everything was calculated to day's- 




marches, and in some proportion to real life. 
Infantry marched ten inches a day on roads, 
cavalry eighteen inches, or twelve when hin- 
dered by light cannon, while the heavy artillery 
crawled along at the rate of three inches a day. 
The range of infantry fire, when unaccom- 
panied by cannon, was twelve inches ; the range 
of cannon was eighteen inches; and the num- 
ber of shots was regulated by the number of 
regiments of four tin soldiers each. Thus an 
army of forty regiments, with heavy artillery, 
would be permitted forty shots ; or eighty shots 
if it possessed two heavy cannon. The firing 
was managed by means of a little spring-gun 
loaded with duck-shot pellets. A single pellet 
was the plain infantry or cavalry shot ; two 
pellets the light-artillery charge ; six pellets the 
heavy artillery. I must say that if Mr. Steven- 
son usually out-manceuvered me by his brilliant 
combinations and dashing play, I was a deadly 
marksman with the spring-gun. 

The evolutions of the mimic armies were 
nicely calculated to scale, while the question 
of provisions and ammunition was met by little 
tin dies that had to be expended in propor- 
tion to the amount of firing or marching. 
Four tin dies a day was the price of heavy 
artillery's existence, and two for light cannon ; 
and for every shot fired a single die had to 
be paid back to the base. The dies were 
brought back again in " carts " which held 
twenty dies apiece, and very often an army 
would get woefully short from want of fore- 
sight and thrift in this department. When an 
army could no longer meet its daily expenses, 
it had to desert its guns and carts on the road, 
and scatter in every direction ; then the enemy's 
cavalry would get after it, and take every man 
prisoner who was within shooting range. 

The game began by covering the ground 
with bits of paper, on which was written the 
strength of the force they represented. Then a 
week might be spent in little cavalry skirmishes 
by which both sides would try to " uncover " 
the other's paper and learn his dispositions. 
If you beat in the enemy's outposts, he had 
to tell you whether he w-as " in force " or not — 
that is, whether he had more or less than five 
regiments, with or without artillery. It used 
to be very exasperating sometimes to fail in 

uncovering these slips, and find half-way through 
the game that you were still in the dark. 
Perhaps you might be scared into massing 
troops to hold a bit of paper in check that 
stood for nothing at all ! 

The weather, too, was not neglected, and like 
the real article in the real world it played an 
important part in a campaign ; for sometimes 
the troops could march only half distances, and 
the heavy guns would be absolutely blocked by 
stress of rain or snow at most critical periods 
of the war. The big battles were very exciting, 
and many difficulties had to be overcome in 
order to succeed, or to minimize defeat ; the 
reserves had to be sufficient, the weather good, 
the army well provisioned and supplied, the 
lines of communication well guarded, so that 
they might not be cut by a sudden cavalry 
rush, and regiments must be stationed at 
bridges to blow them up in case of a disaster. 
But one was often compelled to fight under 
unfavorable conditions, for perhaps an innocent- 
looking piece of paper that you treated with 
contempt would blossom out into a vast force. 
Occasionally two opposing bits of paper would 
bluff each other through an entire game, and 
materially alter its whole character. 

When your army was five times greater than 
the enemy's fighting-line taken together with 
twice his reserves, he had to surrender without 
a shot. But in order to achieve this you had 
to tell him how many regiments you possessed, 
and unless they were sufficient to make him sur- 
render, he did not have to tell you anything 
about his own strength. Thus you took the 
risk of his knowing your entire force without 
getting any corresponding advantage. In fact, 
secrecy was such an essential part of the game 
that you would often not take the full num- 
ber of shots you were entitled to in order to 
keep the enemy in the dark. Out of every 
three soldiers knocked over, two were plumped 
into the " dead box," and one taken home to 
the base, from which he marched out again, 
in company with resurrected men like himself, 
to reinforce weak points and add still more to 
the uncertainty of the war. 

It was indeed a most delightful game, and we 
used to play it day after day with unfailing zest, 
until our knees would ache and our backs get 

1896. ] 




sore with the stooping and kneeling. In only 
one way did it fail to correspond to real war- 
fare, and that was in the persistent and un- 
shaken courage of our tin heroes. We tried to 
remedy this defect with the dice-box, making 
a rule that when three fours were thrown the 
army was to be seized with panic and retire a 
full day's march, deserting its cannon and am- 
munition. But the rule was soon given up, for 
it was too heartbreaking to have one's most 
skilful calculations upset by an unforeseen and 
quite unnecessary panic. The uncertainty of 
the weather was trying enough to a commander, 
without bothering him with unexpected routs, 
though it must be confessed that three fours 
are sometimes thrown on real battle-grounds. 

I could write a great deal more about the 
game, were there space enough at my disposal, 
for I have done nothing more than outline its 
general character. Its ingenious and complex 
rules would fill a small volume. — L. O.] 

IX. From Uncle Louis. 

My dear Austin : Now when the overseer 
is away I think it my duty to report to him 
anything serious that goes on on the plantation. 

Early the other afternoon we heard that Sina's 
foot was very bad, and soon after that we could 
have heard her cries as far away as the front 
balcony. I think Sina rather enjoys being ill, 
and makes as much of it as she possibly can ; 
but all the same it was painful to hear the cries; 
and there is no doubt she was at least very un- 
comfortable. I went up twice to the little 
room behind the stable, and found her lying 
on the floor, with Tali and Faauma and Ta- 
lolo all holding on different bits of her. I gave 
her an opiate ; but whenever she was about 
to go to sleep one of these silly people would 
be shaking her, or talking in her ear, and then 
she would begin to kick about again and scream. 

Palema and Aunt Maggie took horse and went 
down to Apia after the doctor. Right on their 
heels off went Mitaele on Musu to fetch Ta- 
uilo, Talolo's mother. So here was all the is- 
land in a bustle over Sina's foot. No doctor 
came, but he told us what to put on. When 
I went up at night to the little room, I found 
Tauilo there, and the whole plantation boxed 
into the place like little birds in a nest. They 
were sitting on the bed, they were sitting on the 
table, the floor was full of them, and the place 
as close as the engine-room of a steamer. In 




From a photograph never before published. 

the middle lay Sina, about three parts asleep 
with opium ; two able-bodied work boys were 
pulling at her arms, and whenever she closed 
her eyes calling her by name, and talking 
in her ear. I really did n't know what would 
become of the girl before morning. Whe- 
ther or not she had been very ill before, this 
was the way to make her so, and when one 
of the work boys woke her up again, I spoke 
to him very sharply, and told Tauilo she must 
put a stop to it. 

Now I suppose this was what put it into 
Tauilo's head to do what she did next. You 
remember Tauilo, and what a fine, tall, strong, 
Madame Lafarge sort of person she is ? And 
you know how much afraid the natives are of 
the evil spirits in the wood, and how they 
think all sickness comes from them ? Up stood 
Tauilo, and addressed the spirit in Sina's foot, 
and scolded it, and the spirit answered and 
promised to be a good boy and go away. I 

do not feel so much afraid of the demons after 
this. It was Faauma told me about it. I was 
going out into the pantry after soda-water, and 
found her with a lantern drawing water from 
the tank. " Bad spirit he go away," she 
told me. 

"That 's first-rate," said I. " Do you know 
what the name of that spirit was ? His name 
was tautala (talking)." ''Oh, no!" she said; 
" his name is Tu." 

You might have knocked me down with a 
straw. " How on earth do you know that ? " I 

" Hear him tell Tauilo," she said. 

As soon as I heard that, I began to sus- 
pect Mrs. Tauilo was a little bit of a ventrilo- 
quist ; and imitating as well as I could the sort 
of voice they make, asked her if the bad spirit 
did not talk like that. Faauma was very much 
surprised, and told me that was just his voice. 

Well, that was a very good business for the 




evening. The people all went away because 
the demon was gone away, and the circus was 
over, and Sina was allowed to sleep. But the 
trouble came after. There had been an evil 
spirit in that room and his name was Tu. No 
one could say when he might come back again ; 
they all voted it was Tu much; and now Ta- 
lolo and Sina have had to be lodged in the 
Soldier Room. As for the little room by the 
stable, there it stands empty ; it is too small to 
play soldiers in, and I do not see what we can do 
with it, except to have a nice brass name-plate 
engraved in Sydney, or in " Frisco," and stuck 
upon the door of it : Mr. I'll. 

So you see that ventriloquism has its bad 
side as well as its good sides; and I don't 
know that I want any more ventriloquists on 
this plantation. We shall have Tu in the cook- 
house next, and then Tu in Lafaele's, and Tu 
in the workman's cottage ; and the end of it all 
will be that we shall have to take the Tamaitai's 
room for the kitchen, and my room for the 
boys' sleeping house, and we shall all have to 
go out and camp under umbrellas. 

Well, where you are, there may be schoolmas- 
ters, but there is no such thing as Mr. Tu .' 

Now, it 's all very well that these big people 
should be frightened out of their wits by an 
old wife talking with her mouth shut ; that is 
one of the things we happen to know about. 
All the old women in the world might talk 
with their mouths shut, and not frighten you or 
me, but there are plenty of other things that 
frighten us badly. And if we only knew about 
them, perhaps we should find them no more 
■worthy to be feared than an old woman talk- 
ing with her mouth shut. And the names of 
some of these things are Death, and Pain, and 
Sorrow. Uncle Louis. 

Jan. 27, 1893. 
Dear General Hoskyns: I have the 
honor to report as usual. Your giddy mother 
having gone planting a flower-garden, I am 
obliged to write with my own hand, and, of 
course, nobody will be able to read it. This 
has been a very mean kind of a month. Aunt 
Maggie left with the influenza. We have 
heard of her from Sydney, and she is all right 
again ; but we have inherited her influenza, and 

it made a poor place of Vailima. We had Ta- 
lolo, Mitaele, Sosimo, Iopu, Sina, Misi Folo, 
and myself, all sick in bed at the same time ; 
and was not that a pretty dish to set before 
the king ! The big hall of the new house having 
no furniture, the sick pitched their tents in it, — 
I mean their mosquito nets, — like a military 
camp. The Tamaitai and your mother went 
about looking after them, and managed to get 
us something to eat. Henry, the good boy ! 

I- ■:"' 


though he was getting it himself, did house- 
work, and went round at night from one mos- 
quito net to another, praying with the sick. 
Sina, too, was as good as gold, and helped us 



E>~- • - 


greatly. We shall always like her better. All 
the time — I do not know how they managed 
— your mother found the time to come and 
write for me ; and for three days, as I had my 
old trouble on, and had to play dumb man, I 
dictated a novel in the deaf and dumb alpha- 
bet. But now we are all recovered, and get- 
ting to feel quite fit. A new paddock " has 
been made ; the wires come right up to the top 
of the hill, pass within twenty yards of the big 
clump of flowers (if you remember that) and 

by the end of the pineapple patch. The Ta- 
maitai and your mother and I all sleep in the 
upper story of the new house ; Uncle Lloyd is 
alone in the workman's cottage; and there is 
nobody at all at night in the old house, but ants 
and cats and mosquitos. The whole inside of 
the new house is varnished. It is a beautiful 
golden-brown by day, and in lamplight all 
black, and sparkle. In the corner of the hall 
the new safe is built in, and looks as if it had 
millions of pounds in it ; but I do not think 
there is much more than twenty dollars and a 
spoon or two ; so the man that opens it will 
have a great deal of trouble for nothing. Our 
great fear is lest we should forget how to open 
it; but it will look just as well if we can't. 
Poor Misi Folo — you remember the thin boy, 
do you not ? — had a desperate attack of in- 
fluenza ; and he was in a great taking. You 
would not like to be very sick in some savage 
place in the islands, and have only the savages 
to doctor you ? Well, that was just the way 
he felt. " It is all very well," he thought, " to 
let these childish white people doctor a sore 
foot or a toothache, but this is serious — I 
might die of this ! For goodness' sake, let me 
get away into a draughty native house, where I 
can lie in cold gravel, eat green bananas, and 
have a real grown-up, tattooed man to raise 
spirits and say charms over me." A day or 
two we kept him quiet, and got him much bet- 
ter. Then he said he must go. He had had 
his back broken in his own island, he said; it 
had come broken again, and he must go away 
to a native house, and have it mended. " Con- 
found your back ! " said we ; " lie down in your 
bed." At last, one day, his fever was quite 
gone, and he could give his mind to the broken 
back entirely. He lay in the hall; I was in 
the room alone ; all morning and noon I heard 
him roaring like a bull calf, so that the floor 
shook with it. It was plainly humbug; it had 
the humbugging sound of a bad child crying ; 
and about two of the afternoon we were worn 
out, and told him he might go. Off he set. 
He was in some kind of a white wrapping, 
with a great white turban on his head, as pale as 
clay, and walked leaning on a stick. But, oh, he 
was a glad boy to get away from these foolish, 
savage, childish white people, and get his broken 

See "Letter-Box." 




back put right by somebody with some sense. 
He nearly died that night, and little wonder ! 
but he has now got better again, and long 
may it last ! All the others were quite good, 
trusted us wholly, and stayed to be cured 
where they were. But then he was quite right, 
if you look at it from his point of view ; 
for, though we may be very clever, we do not 

set up to cure broken backs. If a man has 
his back broken, we white people can do no- 
thing at all but bury him. And was he not 
wise, since that was his complaint, to go to 
folks who could do more ? 

Best love to yourself, and Louie, and Aunt 
NelHe, and apologies for so dull a letter, from 

Your respectful and affectionate 
end. Uncle Louis. 


By E. W. Kemble. 





■~'H!T| IN 





By Sarah Orne Jewett. 

[Begun in the December number.] 


HE days flew by until 
Christmas, and the wea- 
ther kept clear and 
bright, without a bit of 
rain or gloom, which 
was quite delightful and 
wonderful in that nor- 
thern county. The older 
guests hunted or drove 
or went walking. There 
were excursions of every 
sort for those who liked them, and sometimes 
the young people joined in what was going 
on, and sometimes Betty and Edith and War- 
ford made fine plans of their own. It proved 
that Edith had spent much time with the family 
of her uncle, who was an army officer; and at the 
Western army posts she had learned to ride with 
her cousins, who were excellent riders and in- 
sisted upon her joining them. So Edith could 
share many pleasures of this sort at Danesly, and 
she was so pretty and gay that people liked her 
a good deal ; and presently some of the house- 
party had gone, and some new guests came, 
and the two girls and Warford were unexpected 
helpers in their entertainment. Sometimes they 
dined down-stairs now, when no one was asked 
from outside ; and every day it seemed pleas- 
anter and more homelike to stay at Danesly. 
There were one or two other great houses in 
the neighborhood where there were also house- 
parties in the gay holiday season, and so Betty 
and Edith saw a great deal of the world in one 
way and another; and Lady Mary remembered 
that girls were sometimes lonely, as they grew 
up, and was very good to them, teaching them, 
in quiet ways, many a thing belonging to man- 
Vol. XXIII.— 40. 3 

ners and getting on with other people, that 
they would be glad to know all their life long. 

" Don't talk about yourself," she said once, 
" and you won't half so often think of your- 
self, and then you are sure to be happy." And 
again : " My old friend, Mrs. Procter, used 
to say, '■Never explain, my dear. People don't 
care a bit.' " 

Warford was more at home in the hunting- 
field than in the house; but the young people 
saw much of each other. He took a great 
deal of trouble, considering his usual fashion, 
to be nice to the two girls ; and so one day, 
when Betty went to find him, he looked up 
eagerly to see what she wanted. Warford was 
busy in the gun-room, with some gun-fittings 
that he had taken to pieces. There was no- 
body else there at that moment, and the winter 
sun was shining in along the floor. 

" Warford," Betty began, with an air of great 
confidence, " what can we do for a bit of fun 
on Christmas eve ? " 

Warford looked up at her over his shoulder, 
a little bewildered. He was just this side of 
sixteen, like Betty herself; sometimes he seemed 
manly, and sometimes very boyish, as happened 
that day. " I 'm in for anything you like," he 
said, after a moment's reflection. " What 'son?" 

" If we give up dining with the rest, I can 
think of a great plan," said Betty, shining with 
enthusiasm. " There 's the old gallery, you 
know. Could n't we have some music there, as 
they used in old times ? " 

" My aunt would like it awfully," exclaimed 
Warford, letting his gun-stock drop with a 
thump. " I 'd rather do anything than sit all 
through the dinner. Somebody 'd be sure to 
make a row about me, and I should feel like 
crawling into a burrow. I '11 play the fiddle: 
what did you mean? — singing, or what? If 



we left it until late enough, we might have the 
Christmas waits, you know." 

" Fancy ! " said Betty, in true English fash- 
ion ; and then they both laugh'ed. 

" The waits are pretty silly," said Warford. 
" They were better than usual last year, though. 
Mr. Macalister, the schoolmaster, is a good 
musician, and he trained them well. He plays 
the flute and the cornet. Why not see what 
we can do ourselves first, and perhaps let them 
sing last? They 'd be disappointed not to 
come at midnight under the windows, you 
know," said Warford, considerately. " We '11 
go down and ask the schoolmaster after hours, 
and we '11 think what we can do ourselves. 
One of the grooms has a lovely tenor voice. I 
heard him singing ' The Bonny Ivy Tree ' only 
yesterday, so he must know more of those other 
old things that Aunt Mary likes." 

" We need n't have much music," said 
Betty. " The people at dinner will not listen 
long — they '11 want to talk. But if we sing a 
Christmas song all together, and have the flute 
and fiddle, you know, Warford, it would be 
very pretty — like an old-fashioned choir, such 
as there used to be in Tideshead. We '11 
sing things that everybody knows, because ev- 
erybody likes old songs best. I wish Mary 
Beck was here ; but Edith sings — she told me 
so; and don't you know how we sang some nice 
things together, the other day upon the moor, 
when we were coming home from the hermit's 
cell ruins ? " 

Warford nodded, and picked up his gun-stock. 

" I 'm your man," he said, soberly. " Let 's 
dress up whoever sings, with wigs and ruffles 
and things. And then there are queer trum- 
pets and viols in that collection of musical 
instruments in the music-room. Some of us 
can make-believe play them." 

" A procession ! a procession ! " exclaimed 
Betty. " What do you say to a company with 
masks to come right into the great hall, and 
walk round the table three times, singing and 
playing ? Lady Dimdale knows everything 
about music : I mean to ask her. I '11 go and 
find her now." 

" I '11 come, too," said Warford, with delight- 
ful sympathy. " I saw her a while ago writing 
in the little book-room off the library." 



pT was Christ- 

mas eve ; and 
all the three 
young people 
ing since be- 
fore lunch- 
eon in a most 
m ysterious 
manner. But 
Betty Leices- 
ter, who came 
in late and flushed, managed to sit next her fa- 
ther ; and he saw at once, being well acquainted 
with Betty, that some great affair was going 
on. She was much excited, and her eyes were 
very bright, and there was such a great se- 
cret that Mr. Leicester could do no less than 
ask to be let in, and be gaily refused and 
hushed, lest somebody else should know there 
was a secret, too. Warford, who appeared a 
little later, looked preterm turally solemn, and 
Edith alone behaved as if nothing were going 
to happen. She was as grown up as possible, 
and chattered away about the delights of New 
York with an old London barrister who was 
Lady Mary's uncle, and Warford's guardian, and 
chief adviser to the great Danesly estates. Edith 
was so pretty and talked so brightly that the old 
gentleman looked as amused and happy as 

" He may be thinking that she 's coming down 
to dinner, but he '11 look for her in vain," said 
Betty, who grew gayer herself. 

" Not coming to dinner ? " asked papa, with 
surprise ; at which Betty gave him so stern a 
glance that he was more careful to avoid even 
the appearance of secrets from that time on; 
and they talked together softly about dear old 
Tideshead, and Aunt Barbara, and all the house- 
hold, and wondered if the great Christmas box 
from London had arrived safely and gone up 
the river by the packet, just as Betty herself had 
done six or seven months before. It made her 
a little homesick, even there in the breakfast- 
room at Danesly, — even with papa at her side, 
and Lady Mary smiling back if she looked up, 
— to think of the dear old house, and of Serena 



and Letty, and how they would all be thinking 
of her at Christmas-time. 

The great hall was gay with hoily and Christ- 
mas greens. It was snowing outside for the first 
time that year, and the huge fireplace was full 
of logs blazing and snapping in a splendidly 
cheerful way. Dinner was to be earlier than 
usual. A great festivity was going on in the 
servants' hall ; and when Warford went out with 
Laxly Mary to cut the great Christmas pasty and 
have his health drunk, Betty and Edith went too; 
and everybody stood up and cheered, and cried, 
'• Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas! and God 
bless you ! " in the most hearty fashion. It 
seemed as if all the holly in the Danesly woods 
had been brought in — as if Christmas had never 
been so warm and friendly and generous in a 
great house before. Christmas eve had begun, 
and cast its lovely charm and enchantment 
over everybody's heart. Old dislikes were for- 
gotten between the guests : at Christmas-time it 
is easy to say kind words that are hard to say 
all the rest of the year : at Christmas-time one 
loves his neighbor and thinks better of him; 
Christmas love and good-will come and fill the 
heart whether one beckons them or no. Betty 
had spent some lonely Christmases in her short 
life, as all the rest of us have done ; and perhaps 
for this reason the keeping of the great day at 
Danesly in such happy company, in such splen- 
dor and warm-heartedness of the old English 
fashion, seemed a kind of royal Christmas to 
her young heart. Everybody was so kind and 

Lady Dimdale, who had entered with great 
enthusiasm into the Christmas plans, caught her 
after luncheon, and kissed her, and held her 
hand like an elder sister as they walked away. 
It would have been very hard to keep things 
from Lady Mary herself; but that dear lady had 
many ways to turn her eyes and her thoughts, 
and so many secret plots of her own to keep in 
hand at this season, that she did not suspect 
what was going on in a distant room of the old 
south wing (where Warford still preserved some 
of his boyish collections of birds' eggs and other 
plunder), of which he kept the only key. There 
was a steep staircase that led down to a door 
in the courtyard ; and by this Mr. Macalister, 
the schoolmaster, had come and gone, and the 

young groom of the tenor voice, and five or six 
others, men and girls, who could either sing or 
play. It was the opposite side of the house 
from Lady Mary's own rooms, and nobody else 
would think anything strange of such comings 
and goings. Pagot and some friendly maids 
helped with the costumes. They had practised 
their songs twice in the schoolmaster's own 
house at nightfall, down at the edge of the vil- 
lage by the church ; and so everything was 
ready, with the help of Lady Dimdale and of 
Mrs. Drum, the housekeeper, who would always 
do everything that Warford asked her, and be 
heartily pleased besides. 

So Lady Mary did not know what was meant 
until after her Christmas guests were seated, and 
the old vicar had said grace, and all the great 
candelabra were lit, high on the walls between 
the banners and flags, and among the stag-horns 
and armor lower down, and there were lights 
even in the old musicians' gallery, which she 
could see as she sat with her back to the painted 
leather screen that hid the fireplace. Suddenly 
there was a sound of violins and a bass-viol and 
a flute from the gallery, and a sound of voices 
singing — the fresh young voices of Warford and 
Betty and Edith and their helpers, who sang a 
beautiful old Christmas song so unexpected, so 
lovely, that the butler stopped half-way from the 
sideboard with his wine, and the footmen stood 
listening where they were, with whatever they 
had in hand. The guests at dinner looked up in 
delight, and Lady Dimdale nodded across at 
Mr. Leicester because they both knew it was 
Betty's plan coming true in this delightful way. 
And fresh as the voices were, the look of the 
singers was even better, for you could see from 
below how all the musicians were in quaint cos- 
tume. The old schoolmaster stood in the middle 
as leader, with a splendid powdered wig and 
gold-laced coat, and all the rest wore coats and 
gowns of velvet and brocade from the old house's 
store of treasures. They made a charming pic- 
ture against the wall with its dark tapestry, 
and Lady Dimdale felt proud of her own part 
in the work. 

There was a cry of delight from below as the 
first song ended. Betty in the far corner of 
the gallery could see Lady Mary looking up so 
pleased and happy and holding her dear white 




hands high as she applauded with the rest. 
Nobody knew better than Lady Mary that din- 
ners are sometimes dull, and that even a 
Christmas dinner is none the worse for a little 
brightening. So Betty had helped her in great 
as well as in little things, and she blessed the 
child from her heart. Then the dinner went on, 
and so did the music ; it was a pretty pro- 
gramme, and before anybody had dreamed of 
being tired of it the sound ceased and the 
gallery was empty. 

After a while, when dessert was soon coming 
in, and the Christmas pudding with its flaming 
fire might be expected at any moment, there 
was a pause and a longer delay than usual in 
the serving. People were talking busily about 
the long table, and hardly noticed this until 
with loud knocking and sound of music, old 
Bond, the butler, made his appearance, with an 
assistant on either hand, bearing the plum pud- 
ding aloft in solemn majesty, the flames rising 
merrily from the huge platter. Behind him 
came a splendid retinue of the musicians, sing- 
ing and playing ; every one carried some pic- 
turesque horn or trumpet or stringed instrument 
from Lady Mary's collection, and those who 
sang also made believe to play in the inter- 
ludes. Behind these were all the men in livery, 
two and two ; and so they went round and 
round the table until at last Warford slipped 
into his seat, and the pudding was put before 
him with great state, while the procession waited. 
The tall shy boy forgot himself and his shyness, 
and was full of the gaiety of his pleasure. The 
costumes were all somewhat fine for Christmas 
choristers, and the young heir wore a magnifi- 
cent combination of garments that had belonged 
to noble peers, his ancestors, and was pretty 
nearly too splendid to be seen without smoked 
glasses. For the first time in his life he felt a 
brave happiness in belonging to Danesly, and 
in the thought that Danesly would really be- 
long to him ; he looked down the long room at 
Lady Mary, and loved her as he never had be- 
fore, and understood things all in a flash, and 
made a vow to be a good fellow and to stand 
by her so that she should never, never feel 
alone or overburdened again. 

Betty and Edith and the good schoolmaster 
(who was splendid in his white wig, and a great 

addition to the already brilliant company) took 
their own places, which were quickly found, and 
dessert went on ; the rest of the musicians had 
been summoned away by Mrs. Drum, the 
housekeeper, all these things having been 
planned beforehand. And then it was soon 
time for the ladies to go to the drawing-room, 
and Betty, feeling a little tired and out of 
breath with so much excitement, slipped away 
by herself and to her own thoughts : of Lady 
Mary, who would be busy with her guests, but 
still more of papa, who must be waited for un- 
til he came to join the ladies, when she could 
have a talk with him before they said good- 
night. It was perfectly delightful that every- 
thing had gone off so well. Lady Dimdale had 
known just what to do about everything, and 
Edith, who had grown nicer every day, had 
sung as well as Mary Beck (she had Becky's 
voice as well as her looks), and had told Betty 
it was the best time she ever had in her life ; 
and Warford had been so nice and had looked so 
handsome, and Lady Mary was so pleased be- 
cause he was not shy and had not tried to hide 
or be grumpy, as he usually did. Betty liked 
Warford better than any boy she had ever seen 
except Harry Foster in Tideshead. They 
would be sure to like each other, and perhaps 
they might meet some day. Harry's life of 
care and difficulty made him seem older than 
Warford, upon whom everybody had always 
showered all the good things he could be per- 
suaded to take. 

Betty was all by herself, walking up and 
down in the long picture-gallery. There were 
lights here and there in the huge, shadowy 
room, but the snow had ceased falling out of 
doors, and the moon was out and shone brightly 
in at the big windows with their leaded panes. 
She felt very happy. It was so pleasant to see 
how everybody cared about papa, and thought 
him so delightful. She had never seen him in 
his place with such a company of people, or 
known so many of his friends together before. 
It was so good of Lady Mary to have let her 
come with papa. They would have so many 
things to talk over together when they got 
back to town. 

The old portraits on the wall were watch- 
ing Miss Betty Leicester of Tideshead as she 



walked past them through the squares of moon- 
light, and into the dim candle-light and out to 
the moonlight again. It was cooler in the 
gallery than in the great hall, but not too cold, 
and it was quiet and still. She was dressed in 
a queer old pink brocade, with its old lace, that 
had come out of a camphor-wood chest in one 

twinkling lights of a large town. Lady Mary 
did not say anything more, but her arm was 
round Betty still, and presently Betty's head, 
with the mass of powdered hair, found its way 
to Lady Mary's shoulder as if it belonged 
there. The top of her young head was warm 
under Lady Mary's cheek. 


> '/ 

mmflk i 




ni "W 


of the storerooms, and she still held a little old- 
fashioned lute carefully under her arm. Suddenly 
one of the doors opened, and Lady Mary came 
in and crossed the moonlight square toward her. 

" So here you are, darling," said she. " I 
missed you, and all the ladies are wondering 
where you are. I asked Lady Dimdale, and she 
remembered that she saw you come this way." 

Lady Mary was holding Betty, lace and lute 
and all, in her arms, and then she kissed her in 
a way that meant a great deal. " Let us come 
over here and look out at the snow," she said 
at last, and they stood together in the deep 
window recess and looked out. The new snow 
wassparkling underthe moon: the park stretched 
away, dark woodland and open country, as far 
as one could see ; off on the horizon were the 

" Everybody is lonely sometimes, darling," 
said Lady Mary at last; "and as for me, I am 
very lonely indeed, even with all my friends, 
and all my cares and pleasures. The only 
thing that really helps any of us is being loved, 
and doing things for love's sake ; it is n't the 
things themselves, but the love that is in them. 
That 's what makes Christmas so much to all 
the world, dear child. But everybody misses 
somebody at Christmas time ; and there 's no- 
thing like finding a gift of new love and un- 
looked-for pleasure." 

" Lady Dimdale helped us splendidly. It 
would n't have been half so nice if it had n't 
been for her," said Betty, softly ; for her Christ- 
mas project had come to so much more than 
she had dreamed at first. 




There was a stir in the drawing-room, and a on her cheek, and so they stood waiting a min- 

louder sound of voices. The gentlemen were ute longer, and loving to be together, and sud- 

coming in. Lady Mary must go back ; but denly the sweet old bells in Danesly church, 

when she kissed Betty again, there was a tear down the hill, rang out the Christmas chimes. 

By Oliver Herford. 

CHILD at school who fails to pass 
Examination in his class 
Of Natural History will be 
So shaky in Zoology, 

That, should he ever chance 

to go 
To foreign parts, he scarce 

will know 
The common Mus Ridiculus 
From Felis or Caiiiculus. 
And what of boys and girls is true 
Applies to other creatures, too, 
As you will cheerfully admit 
When once I 've illustrated it. 

Once on a time a young Giraffe 
(Who when at school devoured the chaff, 
And trampled underneath his feet 
The golden grains of Learning's wheat) 
Upon his travels chanced to see 
A Python hanging from a tree, 
A thing he 'd never met before. 
All neck it seemed and nothing more; 
And, stranger still, it was bestrown 
With pretty spots much like his own. 
" Well, well ! I 've often heard," he said, 
"Of foolish folk who lose their head; 
But really it 's a funnier joke 
To meet a head that 's lost its folk. 

i8 9 6.] 


3 J 9 

Dear me ! Ha ! ha ! it makes me laugh. 
Where has he left his other half? 
If he could find it he would be 
A really fine Giraffe, like me." 

The Python, waking with a hiss, 
Exclaimed, "What kind of snake is this? 
Your spots are really very fine, 
Almost as good, in fact, as mine, 


But with those legs I fail to see 
How you can coil about a tree. 
Take away half, and you would make 
A very decent sort of snake — 
Almost as fine a snake as I ; 
Indeed, it 's not too late to try." 

A something in the Python's eye 

Told the Giraffe 't was best to fly, 

Omitting all formality. 

And afterward, when safe at home, 

He wrote a very learned tome, 

Called, " What I Saw beyond the Foam." 

Said he, " The strangest thing one sees 

Is a Giraffe who hangs from trees, 

And has — (right here the author begs 

To state a fad) and has no legs!" 

The book made a tremendous hit. 
The public all devoured it, 
Save one, who, minding how he missed 
Devouring the author — hissed. 


By Arthur Hale. 




" I wish the train would start," said Holly. 

The train had been standing still for about 
half an hour, and Holly was tired of looking 
out of the windows, for there was nothing to 
see except the smooth green sod on the sides 
of the railroad cut in which they had stopped. 
Holly and his brother Jack were going out of 
town to take a ride, and it certainly was ag- 
gravating to know that the horses were stand- 
ing all ready at the station a few miles ahead, 
while the riders were stopped in this uncalled- 
for way. 

Jack had been reading the newspaper with a 
good deal more attention than Holly liked, for 
he had learned by experience that it was not a 
good plan to interrupt his elder brother's read- 
ing; but when Jack had finished Holly started 
in with his wish that the train would start. 

" Now, do you know," said Jack, tapping the 

seat in front of him with the handle of his crop, 
" although I should be very glad to get to Bev- 
erly and to start on our ride, yet I do not wish 
the train to start just yet, and if you will come 
out with me I can show you why." 

So they walked out of the car and jumped 
from the platform into the dry ditch. A num- 
ber of men were standing there already. 

The train had stopped just before it reached 
a little house, two stories high, which Jack 
called a " tower." 

" There," said Jack, " we have a red block, 
you see; and if the train were to start now, 
probably it would run into something, and we 
might never get to Beverly at all." 

" I do not understand what you mean by a 
red block," said Holly. " Has it anything to do 
with that post over there ? " 

" Yes," said Jack ; " the arm that you see on 



the top is a semaphore signal. It warns the 
engineer that there is something on the track 
ahead of him. He is not allowed to go ahead 
until the arm drops. The man up in the tower 
can raise and lower the arm." 

" But how can he 
tell there is some- 
thing on the track ? " 

" When we say 
there is something on 
the track, we do not 
always mean that 
some one has put 
something there, or 
is trying to wreck 
our train. Possibly 
there is on the track 
a train or car that has 
not reached the next 

"Oh!" said Holly. 
" Then does the man 
at the next station 
telegraph back to this 
man in the tower ? " 

"Precisely; and the 
operator here won't 
signal to go ahead 
until the operator at 
the next tower has 
reported the track all 

"What was it you 
called the signal, 
Jack ? " Holly asked, 
after a moment. " It 
was a queer sort of a 
name ? " 

" I called it a 'sema- 
phore signal.' It is a 
word borrowed from 
the French, and is 
made up, I believe, 
from the Greek words 
for 'sign' and 'bearer.' 

Just then there was 
quite a little clatter on the top of the post they 
were looking at, and one of the arms dropped 
from its horizontal position until it hung almost 

Vol. XXIII.— 41. 

" There 's the white block," said Jack. 
'• Jump in quick ! " 

The engine whistled four times; there was a 
great scurrying of the men to get on the train; 
and in the rear of the train Holly could see a 


man in uniform, and carrying a red flag, running 
toward the last car. Then the engine whistled 
twice, and the train started. 

When they were well seated, Holly watched 



to see if his brother would take up his newspa- 
per again ; but as Jack seemed in a communi- 
cative mood, Holly went on with his questions. 

" Just what did you mean by a white block 
and a red block ? " he inquired. 

" Oh," replied Jack, " I called the signals 
white and red because the semaphore is ar- 
ranged at night to show a white light for safety, 
and a red light for danger. There is at night 
a lamp at the top of the post ; and when the 
arm is raised as if to bar the passage of the 
train, — that is, when there is something ahead, 
— a red glass is brought in front of the lamp, so 
that it shows a red light. When the arm falls 
again, the red glass moves away from the front 
of the lamp, and it shows a white light." 

" But how about the block ? " 

" As to that, ' block ' is a word we have re- 
cently borrowed from England. In this signal 
system they speak of the railroad as being 
divided into blocks ; indeed the whole system is 
called the ' block system.' A block extends from 
one signal to the next; and our railroad men, 
when they come to a danger-signal, speak of 
' getting a red block,' and when they come to a 
safety-signal, of ' getting a white block.' I 
don't know whether they use this slang in Eng- 
land or not." 

Holly thought for quite a little while before 
he spoke again. Then he said : 

" I see now. Although our train cannot 
start until the other train has left the station 
ahead, there is no danger of any other train 
running into us, because the signalman behind 
us keeps that train standing till we have passed 
the next station." 

" I think you have the idea about right, 

" What was all the whistling about when the 
signals changed to safety, as you say ? " Holly 

But just at that moment the brakeman put 
his head into the car, and shouted " Beverly ! 
Beverly ! " and when Holly could see Dennis 
with the horses, he forgot all about the railroad 
and the signals, while he and Jack galloped 
up the bridle-path so fast that Dennis could 
hardly keep up with them. 

Having arrived so late, they came back to 
Beverly station only just in time to catch the 

return train. A trainman was standing on the 
rear platform, and as they stepped aboard Holly 
noticed that the man pulled the bell-cord once. 

Just as the train was starting, however, two 
young girls ran out of the station, and the train- 
man hurriedly pulled the cord twice. 

The train slowed up, and as the girls came 
into the car, the man started the train again 
with a single pull. 

In the city horse-cars Holly had noticed 
that the conductor pulled the bell twice to start 
the car and once to stop it, and he was sur- 
prised to find the code of signals reversed on 
the steam railroad. He turned to ask Jack 
about it, but Jack was again hidden behind a 

They were, however, sitting in the rear seat 
of the car, and the trainman was standing near 
them, looking back out of the rear door; and 
Holly, after some hesitation, went up beside 
him and spoke to him. 

" Excuse me," said he, " but how is it that 
you rang once to start the train and twice to 
stop it ? " 

The trainman looked somewhat surprised, 
but said simply, " Because it 's the rule." 

" But why is it the rule ? " said Holly. " It 
is just the other way on the horse-cars." 

The man stared at Holly for quite a little 
while, as if in doubt whether to say something 
cross ; but his consideration of the case seemed 
to result in Holly's favor, and he said : 

" Well, now, young man, I don't know that 
I can tell you why it is the rule. The rule is 
the rule, and we are not supposed to ask why ; 
but I suspect it 's this way : that was n't a bell- 
rope that I pulled ; we used to have a bell, but 
now we have a little whistle. Perhaps you 
have heard it on the engines. Anyway, as I 
said, we used to have a bell : and when the 
train broke in two, of course the bell would 
ring once. Now, if one ring of the bell meant 
to stop, the engineer might stop when the train 
broke in two, and the rear section might run 
into him and make bad work. I suppose 
that 's the reason they had two rings to stop 
and one to start. Of course nobody would 
ring one bell when the train was going fast, 
and that 's the only time the train would be 
likely to break in two." 


" Do trains ever break in two ? " said Holly. 

''Yes, they do sometimes — that is, the cars 
get uncoupled ; and then, of course, the bell- 
cord used to break, and, as I said, the bell rang 
once on the engine. Now that we have got 
the whistle, it blows for three or four minutes 
when the train breaks in two, but they have 
kept the same rules. There is another thing 
about it. Suppose some fellow, who has no 
business to do it, wants to stop the train ; like 
as not he will ring just once to stop it, and the 
engineer won't pay any attention to him." 

Holly had been looking at the man with 
some interest as he talked, thinking that he 
had seen him before, and presently he said : 

" Were n't you the brakeman who ran back 
with the red flag when the train was stopped 
about here going the other way this after- 
noon ? " 

" I am not a brakeman ; I am a flagman," 
was the reply ; " but I guess I 'm the man you 
mean. It was about here we got a red block, 
and I went back." 

"Yes, that was what Jack said," said Holly — 
" that we had a red block ; but why did you go 
back ? " 

" I suppose if I should say ' because it 's 
the rule,' that would n't satisfy you," said the 
flagman, laughing. " The rule is that you have 
got to go back to protect the end of your 
train, so that if another train comes along it 
won't run into yours." 

" But I thought," said Holly, who was not 
averse to displaying his knowledge — " I thought 
there was a signal at the end of the block that 
would stop trains." 

" Yes," said the flagman, " that 's true ; and 
really there is not much reason for a fellow's 
going back now, and I understand they say we 
do it ' only as an extra precaution.' You see, 
the operator in the tower might be taken sick 
or something, and then the man with the flag 
would be of some use. The way it is now, 
two fellows must fail in their duty before any 
harm can come to you passengers." 

"Just now," said Holly, who found his new 
friend was getting quite confidential, " you told 
me you were not a brakeman, but a flagman." 

" Yes," said the flagman ; " when the train 
stops I have to go back with the flag. I sup- 

pose I am really a brakeman, — I might be 
called the rear brakeman, — but they call us 
flagmen and pay us a little more, and so we 
don't quite like to be called plain brakemen. 
It 's something like getting promoted from 
' freight ' to ' passenger,' you know." 

Holly did not know, but he thought he 
could imagine, and he was quite disappointed 
when, without a word, the flagman hurried for- 
ward as thev neared the next station. 

The next morning it happened that Holly 
and his father were the only people early to 
breakfast. Holly had to go to school, and his 
father had to go to his office, while the rest of 
the household, on that day at least, did not 
have to go anywhere. So they two had the 
table between them. 

" Papa," said Holly, " are n't you something 
on a railroad ? " 

" Why," replied Mr. Holworthy, smiling at 
the form of the question, " I am a director on 
one or two small railroads in the West ; but I 
really don't know whether you call that being 
something or nothing." 

" The reason why I ask is because yester- 
day I found out some things about railroads 
that I did not know before. Of course that 
is not very strange," he went on quickly, as he 
noticed that his father was looking at him quiz- 
zically ; " but they really interested me quite 
a good deal." 

"I am glad to hear that, Holly; for there 
really are a great many things to interest one 
about a railroad, and it may be of benefit to 
you to find out some of them. What were 
the particular things you found out, and from 
whom did you learn them ? " 

" Well," said Holly, " Jack told me some, 
and the flagman of our train told me others " ; 
then, as his father seemed interested, he went 
on : 

" Of course it was n't much, but it was 
about keeping trains from running into each 
other, and about signals for starting and stop- 

" Was that when you went out to Beverly 
yesterday afternoon ? Then I suppose they 
told you about the block system ? " 

" Yes, that was it ; and about how the men 




in the towers telegraph to each other when with you on the way to the office, — I think 
trains pass them." you will have time before school, — and I can 

" Did they tell you about the other signals ? " show you what I mean, and perhaps some 
said Mr. Holworthy — " about the flags on the other points may come up. Will you have 
trains, and the ' markers,' and so on ? " time for that, do you think ? " 

Holly glanced at the 

"1 clock. "Oh, yes," 
said he ; " it is n't 
much out of the way. 
It 's ever so good of 
you to take so much 
interest in it." 

"Well," said his fa- 
ther, " I don't know 
much about railroads, 
but the little I have 
picked up is at your 
service. Come along!" 
As they walked down 
the avenue, Mr. Hol- 
worthy, who had been 
silent for a while, be- 
gan to talk about the 
railroads again. 

" Did either Jack or 
your friend the flagman 
speak of a train break- 
ing in two ? " 

"Yes, I think so," 
said Holly. " Oh, I re- 
member now — it was 
when we were talking 
about the signal to start 
a train ; the flagman 
said that when a train 
broke in two the bell 
would ring once." 

" Did it ever occur 
to you what might hap- 
pen if a train should 
break in two without 
the engineer's knowing 
it — of course that could 
happen only with a 
freight-train — and he 

"Why, no," said Holly; " I think we might should run by a tower, and then the operator 
have got to that, but the flagman had to go should telegraph back that the train had 
away, and Jack was reading the newspaper." passed ? " 

" Well," said Mr. Holworthy, looking at his " No," said Holly, who was a little over- 
watch, " I can stop in at the railroad station whelmed by these details. " No ; they did not 




speak of that, and I am afraid I do not quite 

" Then we will try again," said Mr. Holwor- 
thy. " You were just saying that with the 
block system, when a train passed a signal-sta- 
tion, the operator there kept the danger-signal 
up until the operator ahead told him that that 
train had passed." 

" Yes," said Holly ; " that 's right." 

" Because," said his father, " if he allowed 
a second train to go forward it might run into 
the first train." 

" Yes," said Holly. 

" Now," said his father, " supposing only 
part of the first train went by, and the operator 
telegraphed back that it had passed; then if a 
second train went ahead, it might run into the 
cars of the first train that had been left behind." 

" Oh, yes," said Holly ; " that might be so if 
the train was broken in two, as you say." 

" Then," said Mr. Holworthy, " to make 
things quite safe, the operator in the tower 
ought to know, without uncertainty, whether the 
whole train has passed, or only part of it." 

"Yes," said Holly; "but I do not see very 
well how he can know, for some trains have 
more cars than others." 

" How would it do if the last car on each 
train were marked so that the operator could 
readily see whether the whole train had passed 
or not ? " said his father. 

" I should think that would work first-rate," 
said Holly, with more zeal than grammar. 

" Well, suppose you wanted to mark, the last 
car in the train, how would you set about it ? " 

" I suppose you might have a board marked 
' last car,' " said Holly ; " but that would be 
rather clumsy, and then you would need it on 
both sides of the car, because the operator 
might be on either side of the track." 

" How would that do at night ? " 

" I do not think it would do at all," said 
Holly. " They would need something differ- 
ent at night — some sort of a lamp, I suppose." 

" You are right about the lamp, but you are 
not right about the board. They have a flag 
instead, — or, rather, two flags. Here we are 
at the station, and I think I can show them to 

As they walked through the lobby to the 

train-shed, they saw in front of them a long 
line of cars, with an engine beyond, apparently 
just ready to start. 

" I cannot see any flag," said Holly, in a 
disappointed tone. 

" Perhaps that 's because this last car is n't 
going," said his father. 

As he spoke a trainman in uniform passed 
them, carrying quite a bundle of things — 
several lanterns, and also, to Holly's great joy, 
several flags. He went by a number of the 
cars in the train, and then jumped on the plat- 
form of one, set down the lamps, and taking 
two green flags, he unrolled them and set them 
up in sockets at each side of the roof, over the 
platform at the end of the car. 

" There ! " said Holly. " That must be the 
last car going. But what are the other flag and 
all the lanterns for ? " 

" The red flag and the red lantern are for 
him to protect his train with, I suppose," said 
Holly's father, " in case it has to stop." 

"Oh, yes," said Holly; "I remember now 
that when our train stopped on the way to 
Beverly, my friend the flagman, as you call 
him, did take the red flag and run back quite 
a distance — almost out of sight; but there are 
three lanterns, two green and one red." 

" Yes ; the green lanterns are to replace the 
green flags when it is dark." 

They were standing on one side of the plat- 
form, and the people were hurrying by them 
and climbing into the cars. 

" The train is very full," said Holly. " I am 
glad we are not going, for we might not get a 

Just then a man with "Conductor" on his 
cap walked by the train, and spoke a few words 
to the flagman. At once the latter took down 
the flags, went into the car and gathered up all 
the lanterns, and then started back to the next 

" Why, what 's that for ? " said Holly. 
" Are n't they going to have the flags up when 
they are running ? " 

" Come back with me," said his father, " and 
we shall see." So they walked along on the 
station platform as the flagman walked back 
through the car, and when they reached the 
end of the next car they saw him putting up 




the flags there, just as they had been put on 
the car ahead. 

" Oh," said Holly, " they are going to take 
another car because they have such a crowd." 

But his father, after looking at his watch and 
saying he had just enough time to keep an ap- 
pointment, hurried away, and then Holly found 
that he too would have to hurry to " keep his 
appointment " at school. 

Holly was so much interested in the signals 
that, I am sorry to say, he compared notes on 
the subject with Stoughton Second, who had 
the desk in front of him in school. It was 
easier for Holly to give his views to Stoughton 
Second than for Stoughton Second to return 
them, as the latter could not very well reply 
without attracting attention. He managed — 
and this also I regret — to pass back a little slip 
of paper to Holly under the desk, saying that 


his brother — that is, Stoughton First, who was 
in the first class at school — had told him some- 
thing about flags, but that these flags were on 
the engine, and not on the rear car. 

There was not time at recess to talk about 
even so important a matter, because they played 
foot-ball, and as both Holly and Stoughton 
Second were practising for the second eleven 
of the school, and were pretty sure of getting a 

place there, they had, of course, to give all 
their wits to the game. 

When school was over, however, they walked 
home together, and their talk turned on the 
railroad flags. 

First Holly told about the flags on the rear 
of the train, and then Stoughton Second — who, 
by the way, was known out of school as Mat- 
thew or Mat — told about the flags on the en- 

" I don't know that I understand it exactly," 
said he ; " but my brother said they had green 
flags, almost like your rear-car flags, only that 
they were on the front of the engine. What he 
said was that when a train was run in sections 
all the sections except the last had flags on the 

" I think I know what running in sections 
means," said Holly. " You know, on a time- 
table they give the time of a train at each sta- 
tion, and when there are so many people for a 
train that one engine cannot haul the cars, they 
make up another train and run it just behind 
the first, keeping as near schedule time as they 
can; but they do not call it another train — 
they call it a section of the first train." 

" It 's different from marking the last car," 
said Matthew ; " they seem to mark all the 
sections except the last." 

" I do not quite understand why they want to 
do it," said Holly; '-perhaps, though, it helps 
the operators in the tower to know that the 
other sections are really the same train. But 
there isjack; we can ask him." 

Sure enough, on the opposite side of the 
street was Jack, just strolling home to lunch. 
The boys ran across, and each took a place 
at one side of him. 

" Jack," said Holly, " Mat has been tell- 
ing me about running trains in sections, and 
putting flags on the front of the engine, and we 
want to know why they do it." 

"Well," said Jack, "it 's a pretty long story, 
and I don't know that I can explain the whole 
of it myself; but I believe it is more for the 
information of the freight-trains than anything 

" But what do the freight-trains care for the 
passenger-trains ? " said Holly. 

" They care a great deal," said Jack ; " and 

i8 9 6.] 



( & K-- 


that is one of the things people who ride on the 

railroad think very little about. Freight-trains, 

as you know, generally run on the same tracks to be railroaders ? " 

as the passenger-trains, but they do not run so "Why not? " asked Holly. 

fast, and to avoid a collision they have to keep 
out of the way of the passenger-trains. So 
there is a rule that whenever a passenger-train 
is due the freight-train must pull out on a 
siding, and stay there until the passenger-train 
has passed." 

" But what 's that got to do with the sec- 
tions ? " said Stoughton Second. 

" I guess," said Holly, " it 's something like 
the last-car business. If the freight-train has to 
stay on the siding till the passenger-train passes, 
and if the passenger-train has more than one 
section, the men on the freight-train need 
something to tell how many sections there are." 

" That 's it," said Jack. " The men on the 
freight-train have to stay on the siding till the 
section that has not got the flag on has passed. 
I believe, too, that on some roads the first 
section of a train whistles three times to show 
that there is another section following. But 
what makes you boys so interested in rail- 
roading all of a sudden ? " he continued, as 
they came up to the house. " Are you going 


By May Harding Rogers. 

Mathematic maiden mine, 

Say you '11 be my Valentine ! 

We '11 go to sea in a snug little bark 

That will ride the waves like Noah's 

We '11 visit the f] and the A 
too ; 

And then the place where the first 

grew. ; C_M 

We '11 go to the "zone" of the "variable' 

And .. for fish in the summer seas. 

All over the ( \ we together will roam, 

And wherever you like we will make our 

Your fingers fair no work shall stain, 
For servants three we '11 take in our train. 

Two little handmaids shall go along — 
" Polly tfjs; Hedron " and " Polly (~^> Gon " ; 
While " Theo Rem " our cook shall be, 
And make our ' / 1 by the " rule of three." 

If my " hypothesis " is correct, 
My heart and hand you will not reject; 
And the happiest man in the world will be 
Yours ever and only 

"Q. E. D." 


By James Otis. 

[Beg'uti in the i\lay numher.\ 

Chapter XIV. 


Shortly after the boys arrived at City Hall 
Park, and before the business of the day had 
fairly begun, Teenie Massey approached to in- 
quire if they had lately heard anything regard- 
ing Skip. 

" Have n't seen nor heard of him," Carrots 
replied. " What makes you ask ? " 

" Nothin', only I heard he was tearin' 'round 
dreadful yesterday, tellin' what he was goin' to 
do to you fellers." 

" I guess he '11 keep under cover for a while," 
Carrots replied confidently; and Teenie said, as 
he shook his head warningly : 

" Now don't be too sure of that, old man. 
I guess you want to keep your eyes open all 
the time, an' if you get to thinkin' he can't do 
any harm, you '11 find him jumpin' right down 
on you some day." 

" I '11 risk all the harm he can do," Carrots 
replied with a laugh. " He 's too much 'fraid 
the police will 'rest him for stealin', to come 
'round where we are." 

" Well, I happen to know, from what Reddy 
Jackson said, that he has n't given up hopes of 
drivin' you off yet." 

Carrots did not think this warning worthy 
his attention ; but yet he repeated the same to 
Teddy when he found an opportunity. 

" I reckon Teenie 's not far wrong," Master 
Thurston said, greatly to the surprise of his 
partner. " It did n't stand to reason that we 
was goin' to scare Skip so quick, an' I think 
he '11 make one more try to git rid of us." 

" I don't see what he can do," Carrots said 
musingly ; and Teddy chimed in : 

" Neither do I, an' that 's just why we 're 
bound to be pretty careful. You see, if we 
could know what he was up to, it would be 

There was no further opportunity to discuss 
the matter, owing to the sudden demand for 
the bootblack's services, and by noon both the 
partners had almost forgotten the warning given 
by Teenie. 

This day's business brought them more monej' 
than the previous one, but not so much as on 
the occasion when Skip last made his threats. 

On counting up the cash immediately after 
their return home, it showed an addition of a 
dollar and seventy-one cents to the fund, and 
when this had been ascertained, Carrots found 
rime to inquire as to the condition of their 
invalid friend. 

" I 'm feelin' first-class," Ikey said, " 'an 
reckon my leg '11 be all right to-morrow. Say, 
who do you s'pose has been sneakin' 'round 
here to-day ? " 

" It can't be Skip Jellison ? " Carrots replied 

" That 's jest who it was, an' Reddy Jackson 
come with him. Course they did n't know I 
was in here, an' I lay low and I heard every 
word they said." 

" What did they talk 'bout ? " 

" You see I was thinkin' how nice it felt to 
be out er pain, when there was a rattlin' among 
the boxes, as if somebody was a-walkin' on 
'em. First, I thought one of the men from the 
store had come out, an' I kept mighty quiet. 
Then two fellows begun to talk, an' I knew who 
it was the minute they spoke ; so I listened. 
Reddy he said to Skip, ' Here 's where them 
fellows live.' Skip he 'lowed he could n't see any 
place, an' Reddy said he knowed it was, 'cause 
he followed you home last night. Then he fig- 



ured out that you slept in one of the boxes, 
an' that satisfied Skip." 

" Did they hunt to see if they could find 
where we stopped ? " 

" No ; I reckon they did n't dare, for fear 
somebody 'd catch 'em. They was settin' up 
there on the fence, an' if one of the clerks had 
showed his nose they could have jumped over 
on the other side mighty quick. I tell you 
them fellows are up to some mischief." 

" What do you mean ? " Teddy asked quickly. 

" I heard Skip say he was goin' to burn you 
out, an' Reddy asked if he counted on doin' it 
to-night. He 'lowed he would n't, 'cause he 'd 
got to go over to Jersey City; but he 's bound 
to, the very first evenin' he can get away with- 
out anybody's knowin' what he 's up to. He 
says he could put a lot of papers an' shavin's in 
these boxes, an' you 'd be scorched some before 
you got out." 

Carrots was on the point of laughing at this 
revelation of Skip's plot, much as if he ques- 
tioned the latter's courage to do such a thing, 
when he observed Teddy, who was silent and 
looking very grave. 

" Why, you don't b'lieve they 'd dare to burn 
us out ? " he asked in surprise. 

" I ain't so sure 'bout that. Skip Jellison 's a 
fellow that dares to do 'most anything, if he 
thinks he can get through with it an' not be 
caught. It would be a mighty serious scrape for 
us if the boxes should get on fire while we were 
here. If any one saw us comin' out they 'd say 
sure we did it. You might talk till you were 
blue in the face, if they knew that we had had 
candles here, an' not make 'em think we did n't 
do the mischief." 

" By jiminy ! you 're right ! " Carrots ex- 
claimed, as he began to realize what their po- 
sition would be under such circumstances. 
" Don't you think we 'd better tell the folks 
in the store what Skip 's countin' on doin' ? " 

" That would n't do any good. He 'd swear 
it was n't so, an' all we 'd make out of it would 
be our havin' to leave." 

" It seems as if that was what we 'd got to 
do anyhow, if he 's goin' to set this place on fire." 

"Of course." 

Carrots was surprised that his partner should 
agree with him so readily, and asked : 
Vol. XXIII.— 42. 

" Do you really think we ought ter go away 
from here ? " 

" That 's jest the size of it. 'Cordin' to my 
way of figurin', we 're apt to get ourselves into 
a fuss by stayin'; an' although it '11 be hard 
work to find as snug a place, I reckon it 's 
safer to go." 

Carrots was instantly plunged into the low- 
est depths of sorrow. 

Never before had the packing-case home 
seemed so beautiful as now, when it appeared 
necessary to leave it. 

" I 'd like to see somebody thrash that Skip ! 
He 's hardly fit to live ! " 

" The best way 's to let him alone. He '11 
bring himself up with a short turn before long," 
Teddy replied confidently, and then relapsed 
into thoughtful silence. 

" Well, when are we goin' to move ? " Car- 
rots asked, after a pause, during which he 
gazed intently at the flame of the candle, try- 
ing very hard to see there the picture of the es- 
tablishment which he fondly hoped would soon 
belong to the thriving young firm of Thurston 
& Williams. 

" We 'd better look 'round the first thing to- 
morrow. I began to think Skip was up to 
somethin', 'cause we did n't see him. If he 
had n't had an idea in his head 'bout how to 
serve us out, he 'd been up 'round City Hall 

Then it was Carrots's turn to remain silent, 
and not a word was spoken until Ikey timidly 
ventured to ask if they had decided not to eat 
supper on this night. 

This caused them to remember that they 
were hungry ; but neither felt disposed to linger 
long over the meal, and at an unusually early 
hour the candle was put out as the inmates of 
the box laid themselves down to rest for what 
all three believed would be the last time in that 

It was Teddy who awakened the others next 
morning, and as Carrots opened his eyes he ex- 
claimed petulantly : 

" What 's the use of turnin' a feller out now ? 
The sun ain't up yet." 

" But it will be pretty soon, an' we 've got a 
good deal on hand to-day," Teddy replied. 
" Ikey must go with us, for he might n't get a 




chance to get away in the day-time, an' it won't 
do to stay here another night." 

It was a sad-visaged party that filed out of 
the narrow passage leading to the street, in the 
growing light of the early dawn, and made its 
way, without special aim or purpose, toward the 
customary place of business. 

It was decided Ikey should be left upon 
one of the settees in the park, while the others 
went on a tour of investigation for the pur- 
pose of finding new lodgings, and then the 
party separated with the understanding that 
they would meet an hour later to partake of 

Carrots was the first to keep this appoint- 
ment, and he looked exceedingly low-spirited 
when he seated himself by the side of the in- 
valid, who had not yet sufficiently recovered to 
be able to take very much exercise in the way 
of walking. 

" Find anything ? " Ikey asked. 

" Not a thing ! I reckon it '11 be many a 
long day before we '11 get another place sich 
as we had down there " ; and then Master Car- 
rots indulged once more in harsh words against 
his enemies. 

His tirade was interrupted by the arrival 
of Teddy, who looked as joyous as his partner 
looked despondent, causing the latter to say in 
a querulous tone : 

" It does n't seem as if you cared very much 
'bout what them fellows are makin' us do ! " 

" Well, I reckon you 're right, Carrots. P'r- 
haps it 's the best thing ever happened, that we 
had to clear out this mornin'." 

" What do you mean ? " 

" What do you s'pose I 've found ? " 

" Do you mean a place to sleep ? " 


" Ain't been buyin' the Astor House, or any- 
thing like that ? " 

" Comes pretty nigh it, Carrots. I 've found 
a stand ! " 

" I can find dozens of 'em ; but that 's all the 
good it '11 do." 

" But I mean one we can buy." 

" Yes, when we 've got the money," Carrots 
replied impatiently. " Where we goin' to stay 
till we earn as much as we '11 need ? " 

" I can make a trade for this one, with what 

we 've got, by 'greein' to come up with fifty 
cents every day." 

" What ! " and Carrots sprang to his feet, his 
face expressive of mingled joy and astonish- 
ment. " Do you mean to say you know of a 
fellow that '11 trust us for the money?" 

" That 's jest it ! " 

" Let 's get right to him before he has time 
to back out ! A fellow what can make sich a 
chump of hisself as that might get sneaked off 
to the 'sylum before we 'd have time to finish 
up the trade." 

" There 's no need of hurryin' so awful fast, 
'cause this bargain '11 wait for us an hour any- 
how. In the first place, old man, p'rhaps it 
ain't what you 're countin' on. It 's a good 
stand enough, an' seems to me is in a pretty fair 
neighborhood; but the fellow what it b'longs 
to could n't make a go out er it, so had to give 
it up to the man who owns the buildin'." 

" Where is it ? " 

" On Mulberry street, jest off er Grand. You 
see, some fellow built it against the corner store, 
an' 'greed to pay a dollar a week for the trouble 
of havin' it there. He could n't raise the rent, 
an' after he 'd stayed three months, the shop- 
keeper took it. Now, I happened to see the 
place, an' went in an' talked with the man. He 
said it cost twenty dollars, an' he 'd sell it for 
ten if we 'd 'gree to pay a dollar every week for 
rent, an' fifty cents a day on what we owe him." 

" How much you got to put down cash ? " 
Carrots asked, his face clouded somewhat as 
he learned that the establishment was not as 
desirable as he had hoped their future place of 
residence would be. 

" All we can raise." 

" What '11 that 'mount to ? " 

" Pretty nigh five dollars ; but one of those 
dollars goes for rent, you know." 

" Is it big enough to sleep in ? " 

" Yes ; we three could get under the counter 
without much trouble, an' there 's a stove 
b'longs to it, that goes in with the trade." 

" But if we open up there won't be anything 
to sell." 

" I 've 'lowed that we '11 keep back 'bout a 
dollar to buy papers with, an' then if both of 
us work mighty hard, it won't be more 'n three 
or four days before we can have a pretty good 



lot of stuff. You '11 keep right on shinin', an' 
I '11 do my level best with papers, while Ikey 
'tends to the stand till he gets well. 'Cordin' 
to my way of thinkin', we can build up a good 
trade there if we hustle; an' that 's what we 've 
got to do wherever we go. Now, what do you 
say to it ? " 

" Let 's go an' see the place," Carrots said, 
after a moment's pause, and Ikey slid down 
from the settee, as if to intimate that he in- 
tended to accompany the party. 

Teddy started off at once, for it was his be- 
lief there should be no time lost, in case they 
concluded to make the trade, because of the 
fact that the hour for regular business was close 
at hand. 

On arriving at the stand Carrots's first impres- 
sion was very favorable toward the purchase. 

It was painted green, not as bright as if the 
color had just been laid on, but sufficiently so 
to satisfy him regarding the supposed " luck," 
and quite as roomy inside as Teddy had stated. 

The only apparent drawback was regarding 
the business location, for it was a short distance 
off the regular line of travel, and this fact Mas- 
ter Carrots noted at once. 

" That 's so," Teddy replied, when the ob- 
jections were stated; "and I thought about all 
that while I was comin' down to tell you. It 
seems to me as if we might get up a good trade 
'round among these stores, by 'greein' to bring 
the papers just as soon as they was out, an' 
with three of us to pitch in, we could live right 
up to all our promises. As I said before, 
we 've got to work a good deal harder than 
we 've been doin'." 

" It does n't seem to me as if we could do 
that. I 've been humpin' myself the best I 
knew how the last two days." 

" That 's so, Carrots : but you could run 
'round a little more, I reckon, if by doin' it we 
was to own a stand right away." 

" Oh, I 'm willin' to go in, an' you shall be 
the boss." 

" Then we '11 buy it," Teddy said decidedly. 
" I 've got to rush down after the money." 

" Did you leave it under the boxes ? " 

" Yes, I did n't want to lug it 'round all day." 

{ To be co 

" But I thought we 'd 'greed not to go 

" I 'lowed to go down the first thing after 
we knocked off. It 's all safe enough, any- 
how. You stay here till I get back." 

Teddy was off like a flash, and impatient 
though Carrots was to have the business ar- 
rangements completed, his partner returned be- 
fore he thought there had been sufficient time 
for Teddy to make the journey. 

The preliminaries were quickly arranged, once 
they were ready to pay over the money, and, 
leaving Ikey in charge of the empty stand, the 
proud proprietors went hurriedly down town, 
Teddy saying, as he parted with the clerk : 

" I '11 come back soon 's I can, with the 
mornin' papers, and we '11 open right up." 

" I '11 get things fixed before then, if I can 
borrow a broom, 'cause the inside of the place 
must be cleaned up," the new clerk replied, thus 
showing that he was attentive to the interests 
of his employers. 

If Carrots had done as he wished, every 
newsboy and bootblack in the lower portion of 
the city would have known that he and Teddy 
had gone regularly into business ; but the latter 
was averse to proclaiming the news so soon. 

" Better hold on a day or two, an' see how 
it pans out," the cautious merchant advised. 
" You see, if we should bust up the first thing, 
the fellows would laugh at us. We 're bound 
to stay a week, now the money 's paid ; but 
how long a time is that to brag 'bout ? I 
want ter know if we 're goin' to stick, before I 
say anything." 

" When will you 'gree to tell the fellows ? " 

" If we can pay our bills an' have enough 
left to keep the stock up, by a week from to- 
day you shall go 'round to spread the news, 
an' I won't open my mouth till you 've seen 
every fellow you know." 

This was satisfactory to the junior partner, 
and he promised to attend to his work in the 
lower portion of the city as if nothing out of 
the usual course of events had happened, even 
though the firm of Thurston & Williams had ac- 
tually sprung into existence in a proper and a 
business-like manner. 


By Florence E. Pratt. 

A Reginald Birch little boy 

Met the sweetest of Greenaway girls ; 

She, dressed all in Puritan brown, 
He, with cavalier ruffles and curls. 

Her eyes were of solemnest brown, 

Her hair was cropped close to her head. 

His curls were a riot of gold, 

His cheeks were of healthiest red. 

They looked at each other awhile, 
Gay gallant and Puritan maid ; 

Then the Reginald Birch little boy 
Slowly and solemnly said: 

' I wish you wore rufflety clothes ! 
I wish that my hair was cut short ! 




'Cause the boys call me ' missy ' and ' girl,' 
And it interferes so with my sport." 

Said she, " Oh, I like pretty clothes, 

And I do wish they 'd let my hair curl ! 

I wish you were a Greenaway boy, 
And I was a Fauntleroy girl ! " 


Little Mr. By-and-By, 
You will mark him by his cry, 
And the way he loiters when 
Called again and yet again, 
Glum if he must leave his play 
Though all time be holiday. 

Little Mr. By-and-By, 

Eyes cast down and mouth awry ! 

In the mountains of the moon 

He is known as Pretty Soon ; 
And he 's cousin to Don't Care, 
As no doubt you 're well aware. 

Little Mr. By-and-By 
Always has a fretful " Why ? " 
When he 's asked to come or go, 
Like his sister — Susan Slow. 
Hope we '11 never — you nor I — 
Be like Mr. By-and-By. 

Clinton Scollard. 


(A Story of the Year 30 A . D.) 

By William O. Stoddard. 

[Begun in the November number. ] 

Chapter VII. 


Something in the air of the beautiful country 
around the Sea of Galilee seemed to give its 
people tranquillity. Everybody was busy, in- 
deed, and it was not difficult to earn a living 
where the needs of all were so simple. There 
was no contentment, however, for the yoke of 
the Roman foreigner pressed heavily, and so 
did the oppressions of Herod Antipas, whom no 
Jew could regard but as a foreigner, although 
his mother had been a Jewess. Every act of 
brutal cruelty and every merciless exaction which 
the Galileans suffered helped to keep them in 
mind of the prophecies of future freedom. 

There had never been a time when all Jews 
were so busy with thoughts concerning the 
coming of a Messiah, and their fixed idea was 
that he was to be a glorious conqueror and 
king, one greater than David or Solomon, one 
who was to make the Jews the foremost nation 
on the earth. 

Lois and Cyril saw each other almost daily, 
and all their thoughts and talk were about their 
father. They longed to know what had be- 
come of him, but there were no tidings. 

" I wish father could come and see the 
Teacher and hear him," said Cyril, one day. 
He and Lois had been talking of the subject 
which was uppermost in the minds of the peo- 
ple, and Cyril had been studying the stockade 
at the Roman camp. 

Lois was thoughtfully silent, and he went on : 

" Father ought to be getting ready, if there 
is ever to be a rising against the Romans. He 
knows hosts of men all over the country. He 
knows old fighting-men, and they know him. 

He could get them together, too, whenever the 
right time comes. Oh, if his right hand were 
sound, what things he could do ! " 

" The Nazarene is not often in Capernaum 
now," said Lois. " He is teaching and preach- 
ing among the villages, everywhere, and so 
many go to hear him." 

" I wish I could see him do some new won- 
der!" exclaimed Cyril. "They '11 forget all 
about the wine at Cana. I met a man who 
was at the wedding, and he said he thought I 
was mistaken in what was done." 

For some undeclared reason, the Teacher, as 
all men except the rabbis called Jesus, was only 
teaching and preaching among the towns around 
the head of the lake. He was becoming widely 
known, however, as those who heard him car- 
ried news of his discourses, and as yet he had 
not made enemies. 

The days and weeks wore on until the 
autumn went by, and then the winter, of that 
mild climate. The land grew green again with 
the swift growth of the spring crops. The time 
drew near for the annual Passover Feast, and 
every year a host of pious Galileans — all who 
were able — were sure to celebrate it at Jeru- 
salem. When it was announced that Jesus of 
Nazareth and his disciples intended to go, most 
who heard took it as a matter of course, but it 
aroused enthusiasm in Cyril. " I am going," 
he said to Lois. " I cannot take thee this time ; 
we have not money enough. But I must be 
with him at Jerusalem. Who knows what great 
works he will do when he gets there ? Isaac 
Ben Nassur is going, and the Cana people." 

" I wish I might go with thee ! " said Lois. 
" Thou canst not wish to go more than I do. 
I want to see Jerusalem — I want to see the 
Temple. I long to see what the Master will 
do there." 



" I wish I could take thee with me," said 
Cyril. " We will try to have more money for 
the journey next year. But he surely will not 
yet try to take Jerusalem ; I do not think there 
will be any fighting this time. I do not see how 
he ever can take that great city ; it is so strong. 
But he must take it some day, if he is the pre- 
dicted king. Father says there will be a terri- 
ble battle, and I am to be in it. Our captain 
will have to raise an army from all over the 

Lois made no reply to that. She had never 
been able to think as Cyril did of the Teacher. 
She could not imagine him with a sword in his 
hand, fighting other men. 

One of Cyril's ideas had been that the jour- 
ney of Jesus of Nazareth to Jerusalem would 
be like a royal progress, and that he would 
preach to crowds along the way as he was ac- 
customed to do in Galilee. But Cyril was 
mistaken, for the Teacher traveled both quietly 
and rapidly. As for the boy himself, he be- 
lieved he was safe in crossing the district of 
Samaria, so completely was he hidden among 
the crowds of Passover pilgrims. From these 
pilgrims the Samaritans kept away, and to 
them the Roman soldiers paid no manner of 
attention. The weather was glorious ; not too 
warm for traveling, except in the middle of the 
day ; and all the country was in bloom and 

The Passover was to be eaten on the fifteenth 
day of the month Nisan, or April ; but earlier 
than that multitudes began to gather at Jerusa- 
lem, from all parts of the world ; for there were 
great preparations to be made beforehand. 
Some of these had reference to food and lodg- 
ings, but even more were connected with the 
sacrifices to be offered in the Temple. 

The Temple, crowning a high hill, and vis- 
ible from a great distance, was in a vast in- 
closure of strongly fortified walls. Within this 
there were several minor inclosures, separated 
by walls and by gates which were themselves 
important features of the gilded splendor of the 
most costly and beautiful place of worship on 
all the earth. 

These inner inclosures were called " courts," 
and opened into one another. Beyond the 
outer court, none save those known to be Jews 

could enter, and they only after ceremonial 
preparation. Nevertheless, the outer court, just 
within the Temple wall, was part of the Tem- 
ple, the " sacred place," the " house of God." 
Because others than Jews were permitted to 
enter, it was called the Court of the Heathen 
or Gentiles. According to the scriptures, and 
all the teachings of the rabbis, this court was 
holy. Into it nothing unclean could be brought, 
In it nothing could be bought or sold, nor 
could any trade be carried on there. The en- 
tire area, and not a part only, was solemnly 
consecrated and set apart for worship. Never- 
theless, so bad had become the management of 
the Temple affairs by the priests and other ru- 
lers, that during four weeks before the Passover 
all the laws were set aside, and this court was 
rented out to dealers in cattle and all sorts of 
merchandise, and to brokers who exchanged 
current coins — such as Jewish shekels and 
half-shekels, for the foreign coins brought by 
worshipers from other countries. The holy 
place, therefore, was lined with cattle-pens, the 
booths of tradesmen, the tables of money- 
changers, coops of doves, while droves of cat- 
tle and sheep, and swarms of buyers and sellers, 
shouting, jostling, bargaining, and even quarrel- 
ing, turned the entire court into a sort of fair, 
where a vast amount of cheating, extortion, 
bribery, and other mischief went on continually. 

If Cyril had heard of all this desecration of 
the Temple, he thought no more of it than did 
others, for it was a thing to which even those 
who condemned it had become accustomed. 

The road from the north, by which the Gali- 
leans came, must wind among the hills as it 
nears Jerusalem, but at last, just after the city 
comes in sight, the road descends into a valley. 
When that is passed, there is a long ascent to 
the great gate in the high and massive wall 
that then guarded the capital of Judea. 

Cyril's eagerness increased as he drew 
nearer, and at last the long procession of pil- 
grims he was with reached the ridge of the 
Mount of Olives, and he could see the city. 

" Jerusalem is glorious ! " he exclaimed. 
" What massive walls, and great towers ! They 
say there is a whole legion of Roman soldiers 
camped near the city, and that the garrison 
inside is always very strong at Passover time. 

33 6 



What can our Nazarene do with them ? He 
is going into the city." 

Hardly a pause was made, indeed, by the 
Teacher and his friends. The)' were not hin- 
dered at the gate, and Cyril hardly allowed 
himself to wonder at the palaces and forts and 
other splendors as he followed close after Jesus 
of Nazareth up the steep street that led to the 
Temple. It would have taken him or anybody 
long enough to tell of what he saw by the way; 
the throngs of people from every nation he 
had ever heard of, the many different kinds of 
dress, the horses and their trappings, the char- 
iots, the flowers and fruits, the shops and mer- 
chandise, the women in bright colors, the slaves, 
the soldiers in their armor, the men whom 
he knew to be gladiators, trained to fight in 
the terrible arena outside of the walls. It was 
still early in the forenoon of the bright April 
day when the Teacher passed into the outer 
court of the Temple. His face took on an 
expression of sadness and severity as he gazed 
upon the scene of traffic and confusion before 

Only for a few moments, however, did Jesus 
linger and look. His friends from Galilee, 
as many as were with him, may have had 
errands of their own among the buyers and sel- 
lers, for when he suddenly turned and walked 
away out of the court, he went almost alone, 
only Cyril following, at a little distance, half 
breathless with awe and with an intense anxiety 
as to what might be about to come. 

Chapter VIII. 


In the city of Jerusalem, as in other Oriental 
cities, the several trades were not in every quar- 
ter, but the dealers in different wares generally 
kept separate. Cyril could not have found his 
own way to any quarter, but he could follow 
his captain, as he considered him, to a narrow 
street near by, mainly occupied by dealers in 
rope, cordage, and similar wares. There were 
also tent-makers in that street, and it was by 
the shop of one of these that the Teacher 

Hanging in front of the booth were quan- 

tities of the small, strong, tough cords used 
for tent fastenings ; and Cyril wondered to see 
the Teacher buy some of these. 

Cyril and the dealer looked on with more 
than a little curiosity. A bunch of the cords 
were at first cut into lengths, and then the 
Teacher plaited them into a kind of whip, half 
as large at its beginning as a man's wrist. 

Swiftly he worked and dexterously ; and Cyril 
watched him from a little distance. 

The whip, or "scourge," was soon finished; 
and he who had made it rolled it up and si- 
lently strode away toward the Temple, whither 
Cyril followed him. 

Through the great gate and into the outer 
court they went ; the hubbub of buying and 
selling was before them. 

It seemed to be at its height. The unseemly 
disorder was even louder than usual. Sheep 
bleated, fowls crowed, cattle bellowed, men 
shouted to one another. 

" What will he do ? " exclaimed Cyril, for 
now the whip was raised above the head of 
the Master. Stern indeed was his face at that 
moment, as he drove forth the chaffering 
throng. Loud bellowed the beasts as they fled 
in terror, and loudly, for a moment, shouted 
their astonished and angry owners. 

"They will turn and stone him!" was one 
quick thought in Cyril's mind ; but it vanished. 

Not even the cattle and the sheep fled more 
unresistingly than did the human beings from be- 
fore that scourge and from the rebuking face of 
him who wielded it. The dealers in fowls caught 
up their coops and cages to hurry them away, 
but no such escape was permitted to the dealers 
in money. A moment before they had been 
sitting, in their customary insolent security, be- 
hind their tables, upon which were piled the 
various coins they dealt in. Of all the thieves 
who polluted the Temple they were the worst 
offenders. A punishment came to these men 
that they could feel more deeply than even the 
scourge, for the Teacher grasped the nearest 
table and scattered the ringing coins on the 
marble pavement, as he said : 

" Take these things hence ; make not my 
Father's house a house of merchandise." 

Cyril thought for a moment of the armed 
guards of the Temple. They were there, truly, 


but this was a matter that seemed to concern 
the Jews and their religion — not the guards 
at all, for the guards were Romans. 

There was nothing, apparently, for Cyril to 
do, nor for any man of the throng which was 

and the religious feeling of the Jewish people. 
Every rabbi and every pious Israelite would 
surely approve of what had been done. 

"But the priests and the rulers — what will 
they think of it ? " was a question in Cyril's 


now gathering behind the Teacher. His own 
disciples were there, and a fast-increasing throng 
of sturdy Galileans, whose faces showed hearty 
approval of his course. 

So the buying and selling which had so long 
polluted the outer court of the Temple came 
to an end. Cyril was a Jewish boy, and he 
could perfectly understand the acclamations 
that were arising so noisily on all sides. He 
knew that the Teacher from Nazareth had only 
acted in accordance with the public opinion 

Vol. XXIII.— 43. 

mind, and others felt as he did, for he heard 
one of the disciples say to another: 

" It is written, ' The zeal of thy house hath 
eaten me up.' " 

The only criticism came from one of the 
Jewish bystanders, speaking as if for the others. 
He said, as questioning the Master's authority: 

" What sign shewest thou unto us, seeing 
that thou doest these things ? " 

It sounded like an entirely reasonable ques- 
tion, considering what a responsibility had been 


taken in enforcing the Temple law of holiness No more was said, but many were beginning 
entirely without the authority of priest or ruler, to treasure the utterances of the Galilean 
and the reply was : Teacher, and this saying of his was not for- 

" Destroy this temple, and in three days I gotten. Cyril could not then, nor for long 
will raise it up." afterward, have understood at all, if he had 

It did not appear to be an answer. It did been told that Jesus really spoke of the tem- 
ple of his own body. 
But in later times his 
answer was thus ex- 
plained. All Cyril then 
knew was that the ex- 
pulsion of the money- 
changers w&s a proof 
of power by one who 
would soon, he fully be- 
lieved, draw the sword 
of a military leader, and 
become a captain of 
the house of Israel. 

Just then he heard 
a voice behind him in 
tones of strong ap- 
proval : 

" He has done well. 
He is for the Law. 
He is of the house of 
David ; he should be 
zealous for the Law." 
Cyril turned to look 
into the glowing face 
of Isaac Ben Nassur. 
The cleansing of the 
Temple was in accord- 
ance with the strict 
principles of thelearned 
rabbi, and Isaac's next 
words to Cyril were 
both cordial and affec- 
tionate : 

" Come thou with us. 
Thou shalteatthy Pass- 
over lamb with thine 
own kindred. Thou 
belongest with us." 

not offer even the sign demanded, for nobody This invitation was in keeping with Jewish 
could or would destroy the Temple; and the custom, and Cyril went with Isaac. He felt 
questioner responded : himself, however, a very insignificant addition 

" Forty and six years was this temple in to the party, which included some of the most 
building, and wilt thou rear it up in three dignified men of Cana. 
days ? " Isaac's wife, Hannah, was with him, and 




there were other women belonging to the sev- 
eral families represented. 

There were yet two days to be spent before 
the Passover itself; and Cyril at first knew 
hardly what to do with them. He heard, how- 
ever, that the chief priests and the rulers of the 
Temple had immediately issued orders that the 
outer court of the Temple should be kept abso- 
lutely clear of everything and everybody pro- 
hibited by the Law. 

A complete victory had therefore been gained. 
As for the Romans, or any other heathen, they 
did not care how strict might be the religious 
notions of anybody who did not meddle with 
their power to govern Judea and to collect the 

Cyril's main idea, as soon as his mind began 
to clear a little, was to find out all he could 
about the Roman power. As he learned its ex- 
tent, his respect for it grew. With the dawn of 
each day, he was out from among his friends 
bent upon learning all about Jerusalem. They, 
too, had much that required their attention, and 
did not give him a thought. 

The walls were so high, that it seemed im- 
possible for any enemy to get over them. 
There were towers, and there were guards at all 
the gates. The castles and forts were so many 
and so strong, and the soldiers were so warlike, 
so well trained, the city seemed unconquerable. 

It made Cyril's heart sink, the day before 
the Passover, when he went out by the Roman 
camp and saw a legion of the men who had 
overcome the armies of all nations drawn up 
in glittering ranks to be reviewed by their offi- 
cers, and by some great men who were there 
from Rome, and by some visiting princes from 
other provinces who were guests of the rulers 
of Judea. He asked himself sadly, how could 
the coming king of Israel gather a force strong 
enough to withstand the Roman legions, of 
which so many could be sent against him, or 
how could he drive them out of such a strong- 
hold as the walled city Jerusalem ? 

Chapter IX. 
herod's amphitheater. 
The Passover feast was eaten with all solem- 
nity, and Cyril went with Ben Nassur and his 
friends, before and afterward, to witness the 

Temple sacrifices and to take part in the grand 
ceremonies. He heard the priests and Levites 
chant the psalms ; he saw the smoke go up 
from the altars. It seemed to him that he had 
never before had any idea of what it was to be a 
Jew and to have a right in Jerusalem, the City 
of the Great King, the Holy Place, to which 
all the nations of the world were one day to 
come and worship. It was to be a wonderful 
kingdom; but, somehow, the more he thought 
about it and the more he saw, the smaller 
grew the idea which had brought him to the 
feast — the idea that Jesus of Nazareth was 
really the king who was to come. It had not 
seemed so incredible while he was among the 
hills of Galilee. 

During the few days before Ben Nassur and 
his friends were to set out for home, Cyril saw 
hardly anything of the Teacher. On one of 
those days he went to the amphitheater, the 
circus which Herod the Great had built, at some 
distance from the city. He paid for a seat in 
one of the upper galleries. On the tiers of 
seats below him were all sorts of people, and 
far away, on the opposite side of the vast arena, 
the sandy level in the middle, he saw, in the 
lower tier, a canopied place that was furnished 
magnificently. In it there were throne-seats, 
and on them sat King Herod Antipas, Pontius 
Pilatus, the Roman governor, two Roman gen- 
erals, with other distinguished men, and a num- 
ber of richly dressed women, some of whom 
wore brilliant tiaras or coronets upon their 
heads. He stared at them for a few minutes, 
and at the tremendous throng of people, but 
after that he thought only of what was going 
on in the arena. 

There were chariot races; and Cyril could 
not help being intensely excited by the mad 
rush of the contending teams, while all the 
thousands who looked on shouted and raved. 
After the races, however, came scenes some of 
which made him shudder. There were foot- 
races and boxing-matches, but these were soon 
over, and then there were contests between 
pairs of swordsmen, spearmen, clubmen, and 
the like, in which the fights went on until one 
of the combatants was slain. Close upon the 
last of these duels, bands of gladiators marched 
in from opposite sides of the arena, and charged 




each other like detachments of soldiers upon a 
real battle-field. The fighting was furious and 
desperate, but one side was soon beaten, for the 
parties had not been equal. One party had 
been trained warriors, professional gladiators, 
and the other only common men, captives 
taken in a recent raid of Pilate's soldiers upon 
a wild tribe beyond the Dead Sea. They were 

come, he would never permit such cruelty as 
this ! I ought not to be here ! I will not come 
again ! " 

It was no place for him, and yet he had all 
the while been thinking of some things that he 
had seen, and of more that he had heard, of 
the dealings of Herod and of the Romans with 
such Jews as had offended them. 



brave enough, but they were put there only to 
be killed for the amusement of the great men 
and of the multitude. So were the poor victims 
with whom the day's exhibition closed, for they 
were driven into the arena, half armed, to con- 
tend as best they could with a number of hun- 
gry lions, tigers, leopards, and hyenas, which 
were loosed upon them from their dens under 
the tiers of seats. 

" Oh ! " thought Cyril, " If our king were to 

" They seem," he said to himself, " to enjoy 
putting our people to death, just as they enjoy 
the suffering of captives and gladiators in the 
circus. The king will drive out these wicked 
Romans when he comes and takes the king- 

Cyril had something new to hear that night, 
his last night in Jerusalem. Rabbi Isaac, dur- 
ing the first few days after his arrival, had had 
a hard time of it ; so many people had inquired 

iS 9 6.J 



of him concerning Jesus of Nazareth, the Gali- 
lean Teacher, and particularly about the won- 
der performed at Isaac's house, in turning water 
into wine. The rabbi had firmly declared all he 
knew, but the dread of having to tell it over and 
over had inclined him to keep away from ques- 
tioners. Of any other marvelous things which 
had been done in Galilee he knew nothing. 
Neither did Cyril, but now something entirely 
new and positive had come. The Nazarene, 
as some men called Jesus, had been healing 
sick people in Jerusalem during the Passover 
season — not a few, but many. His fame was 
growing rapidly, and the Passover pilgrims 
would carry news of him not only to every 
corner of the land of Canaan, but to other 
lands — to the very ends of the earth. 

Ben Nassur said that he wished he had seen 
some of these marvelous cures ; but his regret 
was slight compared to that of Cyril. 

" I did not think he would heal the sick in 
the city," he said. " Yet I might have known 
the Teacher would do wonderful works. But I 
have learned all about Jerusalem." 

" Thou hast done well enough," said Isaac. 
'• Thou art only a youth. What wonder he has 
healed the sick ? He is of the house of David. 
He is now a rabbi, truly. But Nathanael is 
wrong, for he is not the coming king of Israel. 
They will never anoint him. No, no, my son; 
he will never be the Anointed." 

Cyril was silent. Ben Nassur had spoken 
in Hebrew, and the words he used, " the 
Anointed," were the very words which, trans- 
lated through the Greek and Latin tongues 
into our own, are " the Christ." 

Cyril went to sleep that night with the de- 
termination to cease his sight-seeing about the 
city. He would keep as close as he could to 
the Teacher, so that he might see him do works 
as remarkable as that which he had done at 

Perhaps Isaac had formed a like purpose, 

but it was too late, for almost the first words 
Cyril heard from him the next morning were 
these : 

" The son of Joseph of Nazareth hath de- 
parted for Galilee. It is time for us also to go. 
Get thee ready. We shall see, now, what he 
will do in his own country." 

It was all in vain that Ben Nassur and his 
friends prepared in haste, for Jesus and his dis- 
ciples were a day's journey on their way. As 
for Cyril, he felt that a misfortune had befallen 
him ! 

" I long to see the wonderful works he is 
doing," he thought ; " and I shall not be with 

And indeed many were healed all along the 
homeward way. Ben Nassur and those who 
were with him heard accounts of these events 
from place to place. He had worked wonders 
even at and near Samaria. When they reached 
Cana, the Master had been there already. He 
had preached there, and he had healed the 
sick ; then he had gone onward toward Caper- 

" My son," said the rabbi to Cyril, with great 
dignity of manner, " I will go to Capernaum 
myself. There have been many rabbis who have 
healed the sick. It is wonderful, but I have 
heard of such marvels ; yet it is my duty to see 
it done." 

So the wise and learned rabbi hardly paused 
in his journey save to sleep one night at his 
own house in Cana. He even bade Cyril go 
forward that very evening, promising to follow 
in the morning. 

" It will be the sixth day," he said. " I 
must be in Capernaum to hear him preach in 
the synagogue on the Sabbath." 

" Simon is living at Capernaum now," said 
Cyril. " Thou wilt find me at his house. I 
shall see Lois, too, and she will tell me all she 
has heard about the Teacher, and where he is 
to preach." 

( To be continued.) 


By Pearl Rivers. 

Here are some Pop-corn People 

Who have just popped out of the coals, 

All dressed as if for a wedding— 
Bless their dear little souls! 

Here is Ching Chang from China, 

Lacking his long pigtail; 
And here is a hale old Scotchman, 

Barring his cakes and ale. 


Here is Sir Walter Raleigh, 

And a well-known Spanish don; 

And look! by the veil of the ^- 
Prophet ! /w. 

A Turk with his turban on. p^' ^ 

v , fA^l 


Here is a sweet young lady, 
Who comes with a little page ; 

She wears a ruff that betokens 
The Elizabethan age. 

Here is a pop-corn " Brownie " 
That our dear Palmer Cox 

Has n't put to work in a picture, 
Ready to row or to box. 

This is a Humpty-Dumpty 

And a jester of the court, 
And this is a jolly sailor, 

Just from a foreign port. 

"The top o' the mornin' ter yez!" — 
Why, here are Bridget and Pat, 
Who have just arrived from the Cove of $fj^J 

Cork - % 

Is anything plainer than that ? \y \ | 

Here, with her " tete poudree" 

Is a stately dame from France ; 
And here is a Choctaw Indian 

Asking her out to dance. 

Dear little Pop-corn People ! 

Pop ! — pop ! — pop ! — ■ 
They are coming too fast to count them 

But it seems that they cannot stop. 


White little, light little people ! 

Bright little people all ! 
No wonder the " fire-fairy " 

Is treating them to a ball ! 

Now children, note — and remember — 
These new folk, face by face, 

Whom I was the first to discover — 
This dear little, queer little race ! 



./ v 

v -' 

One Friday there was a heavy fall of snow, and some small boys and 
girls laid plans for a good time on Saturday. They made a great many 
snow-balls, and piled them in heaps ready for the next day. They made 
a slide down the side of a little hill, jumping on the snow until it was smooth 
and hard, and then poured pails of water over the slide to make it icy and 
slippery. All was done by dinner-time, and the children ran home, think- 
ing how much fun they would have on Saturday. 

No sooner were the children gone than a little bear passed that way. 
It was his birthday, and he had on his best coat and trousers, but he had 
not had any presents. Mr. and Mrs. Bruin had meant to give him some 
honeycomb, but the farmer who kept bees bought a big dog about that 
time, and Mr. and Mrs. Bruin could not get the honey for their son Smiler. 

So Smiler Bruin was a little cross, and was walking about the woods and 
growling to himself. But when he came to the slide that the children had 


made, and saw the piles of snow-balls, he lost his ill humor, and was very 
glad. "Oh!" he cried, "how kind of somebody! They made this nice 
slide for a surprise. I will give a party and ask all my friends." He ran off, 
as fast as he could go through the deep snow, and told all ths little bears 
he knew to come to his Slide and Snowball Party. Ten of them could come, 
and trotted after Smiler, who led the way, as proud as he could be. 

The water had frozen on the slide, and it was as smooth as any little 
bear-cub could wish. All said that Smiler should have the first slide ; and, 
taking a good run, he spread his legs wide apart, and sailed grandly down 
the hill, while all the little bears clapped their paws and growled joyfully. 

But, when Smiler came to the foot of the hill, his claws hit a branch that 
was just under the top of the snow, and Smiler went paws over nose into 
a deep drift, and had to be pulled out by the heels. 

Then the little bears went down the slide, one by one, as fast as they 
could go. And they threw all the snowballs at each other. Every time a 
bear was hit, he did not like it much ; but all the others did, so he had to 
laugh. Well! — when Smiler's birthday party was over the children's snow- 
balls were all smashed, and the slide was all scratched up, and the children 
never knew who did it. 

Eleven Humpty Dumptys sitting on a wall. 

One could n't quite get on, he was so plump and small. 

One said: " Let 's go right off and get some bread and jam." 

One said: "I don't want to — I '11 stay here where I am." 

One spied a little ant in a crevice of the stone. 

One said : " You '11 hurt him ! Just let that ant alone ! " 

One watched the far-off clouds like a poet yet unknown. 

One said : "/ 'm a-goin'," and one replied : " Well, go ! " 

One said : " We two fellows are the last ones in the row." 

One said : " I know it," though he really did n't know, 

For, while he spoke, a little chap had climbed up from below. 


Vol. XXIII.— 44. 


By Garrett Newkirk. 

Denver and Rio Grande"* road 

To Utah we may take; 
Then travel through the northern part, 

Around the Great Salt Lake. 

At forty miles an hour, or more, 

We speed upon our way ; 
Where "prairie schooners" crawled along 

Scarce twenty miles a day. 

First came the Mormons to this land, 

With notions rather queer; 
From trouble in the Eastern States 

They moved, and settled here. 

The thriving city of Salt Lake 

Affords a pleasing sight; 
The Lake is of the deepest blue, 

With shores of gray and white. 

* Pronounced Rio Grand'y. 

Jfc % ihfeuf! 





Editorial Note. 

An item in the Jack-in-the-Pulpit Department of our 
November issue, under the heading, " Reading by Let- 
ter," introduced some bright lines entitled " Quite a 
Spell." They were copied from a newspaper clipping 
that bore neither their author's name nor that of the news- 
paper. The editor of Sr. NICHOLAS has learned that 
the verses were originally written twelve years ago by 
Mr. Herwick C. Dodge, and she gladly gives him due 
credit at this earliest opportunity. 

Readers of the '•' Letters to a Boy," by Robert Louis 
Stevenson, which are completed in this number, will be 
interested in reading the account which follows, of a 
Samoan picnic at Papaseea, shown in the illustration on 
page 310. We reprint the description of this picnic 
from the article " Samoa: the Isles of the Navigators," 
published in The Century Magazine for May, 1889 : 

An experience in which every stranger visiting Apia is 
invited to indulge is a jaunt of about three miles to what 
is known as Papaseea, a sheet of water falling over 
smooth rocks, where he is introduced to the novelties of 
a Samoan picnic, which is in reality a day's frolic in the 

Generally the party is decided upon several days pre- 
viously, so that an ample supply of refreshments may be 
prepared and sent ahead early in the morning, cooked 
in the Samoan fashion, with hot stones, in the ground. 

At about eight o'clock, while the dew is still on the 
leaves, dusky maidens, resplendent with cocoanut oil, and 

attired in festal wreaths of flowers and bright-colored 
lava-lava, assemble with the young men and invited 
guests at the appointed place preparatory to the march. 
Shouting, laughing, and singing, they spring lightly 
along the path leading to the falls, and, as soon as they 
arrive, one after another eagerly jump into the clear, 
cool pool of water at the base of the falls, diving and 
splashing in the water with screams of laughter and de- 
light that make the valley ring with their enthusiasm. 
The greatest feat, which, when first attempted, fairly 
takes the breath away, is to go above the rocks over 
which the stream rushes, and with three or four seated 
together, toboggan- fashion, slide over the smooth rock 
for a distance of eighteen feet, at an angle of forty de- 
grees, and plunge into the pool below. The sensation 
produced is indescribable, and can hardly be imagined un- 
less realized. After spending a few hours in the water, 
it is forsaken to partake of dinner, served upon banana 
leaves for plates, and with fingers for forks. Then all 
return to the aquatic sports, which are kept up until it is 
time to return home. 

New York. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have often wished that your 
little readers might see Chinatown in San Francisco 
during the celebration of the Chinese New Year's day. 
It is not ushered in soberly and quietly, as we receive our 
January 1, but with noise and color, feasting and gaiety. 

The custom of giving presents is universal; even the 
laundrymen carry packages of nuts and Chinese candy to 
the houses where they serve, and the cooks and other 
house-servants often give very beautiful and valuable 
presents to their employers. The prettiest gift, though, 
is the Chinese lily, or narcissus. On the day preceding 
the festival men may be seen carrying on their heads 




great trays rilled with blue-and-white bowls, in which 
blossom the growing bulbs of the national flower. 

The Chinese children always have a great fascination 
for me. They carry themselves with conscious dignity 
in their gorgeous holiday dresses of purples, yellows, 
bright greens, and vivid pinks, and they may be seen in 
great numbers with pots of lilies, toddling along on their 
unsteady little shoes, enjoying in their sober fashion the 
bursting bombs and fire-crackers that shower about them. 

During the New Year's festival the government offices 
are closed for a month, and most of the shops for at 
least three clays. The streets are swept, which is to 
them a most unusual attention ; and the restaurants and 
joss-houses are polished and bedecked with all their 
brightest hangings and cushions. 

The inscription in Chinese characters which is seen 
on the left of the sketch of Chinese children is the usual 
Chinese New Year's greeting : " Good luck for the New 

Let me echo it for all the little friends of our good 
saint. Yours sincerely, 

Albertine Randall Wheelan. 

auchnadrochit, aoroch brae, loch dornoch, 
Ross-shire, Scotland. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am twelve years old, and I 
have taken you for three years. I have never been out 
of Scotland — indeed, I have never been out of this 
county, so I am doubly interested to hear about other 
countries. My mother promised to give me St. Nich- 
olas as soon as I could speak English, for we speak 
nothing but Gaelic here. And now I ride down to the 
nearest post-office — ten miles from here — every month 
for you. I have very few books, so you may imagine 
how I like to get you. I am the only girl among ten 
brothers, and they are all older than myself, except two, 
Ronald and Donald, who are six-year-old twins, and 
never out of mischief. Yesterday they let some sheep, 
that were going to be sold, out of the paddock, and we had 
such a hunt for them ! You must know we live on a large 
sheep-farm, with three thousand sheep, and ten beautiful 
collie dogs, one of which belongs to me. My father gave 
him to me when he was apuppy, four years ago. Ihavesent 
him to several shows since. He has taken two first prizes 
and one second. My father gave him to me because one 
day one of the dogs went mad. I was out riding, and sud- 
denly I met him rushing along, all foaming. I knew in a 
minute he was mad, and feared that he would bite some 
one. I turned my horse, and galloped back as hard as 
I could. I was then six miles from home, but I never 
stopped galloping all the way. When I got home, I 
ran and got my rifle ; and I was n't a moment too soon, 
for when I had gone but a little way from the house the dog 
came galloping round a corner, and I fired. He just 
ran a few paces toward me, and then fell dead. 

As so many children write about their pets, I will just 
tell you about ours. I have a big dark-chestnut horse, 
and an old gray pony, and one lovely Highland cow. 
And Ronald and Donald have a very ugly black mongrel 
puppy that follows them wherever they go, an old cart- 
horse that is past work, and two goats that they drive in 
a little cart. 

With best wishes for a long life to you, I remain your 
admiring reader, Margaret MacD . 

wish to tell you that on the third, fourth, and fifth of 
October it was Nottingham Fair once more. 

It is by no means such a large fair as formerly; but, 
for all that, many thousand people attend it. 

I live five minutes' walk from the caves where Robin 
Hood hid himself so securely. Nottingham means the 
Home of Caves. 

You would have hard work to find the far-famed for- 
est, for houses have taken the place of trees ; but still 
Robin's memory is kept green by our volunteers, who 
are called "The Robin Hood," and wear a green uni- 
form in imitation of his " Lincoln Green." 

I have taken you for many years, and once fancied 
you were not " grown up " enough for me, so I tried — 
well, I will not say which magazine — with the result that 
I quickly took you again, and mean to stick to you all 
my life. Yours sincerely, Nell C . 

New Haven, Conn. 
My dear St. Nicholas : We are little twin brothers, 
aged ten. We are going to Yale when we get big. Our 
papa went to Yale, and had a doggie that followed him 
to class one day, like Mary's little lamb, and would 
bark when any one said " Yale." 

He took us to the games yesterday, when Cambridge 
played Yale, which beat. 

I am writing this, though Allan wants to. We love 
our country and St. Nicholas and Yale. 
Your loving readers, 
Allan and Branscomue T . 

Forest Road, Nottingham, England. 
Dear St. Nicholas : A few months ago you gave us 
a ballad on Nottingham Fair. I liked it very much, and 

Oficina la Palma, Chile. 

My dear St. Nicholas : I thought I would write 
to you, as I do not remember seeing a letter from Chile 
in your magazine. We live in one of the nitrate ofi- 
cinas on the Tarapaca Pampa. The pampa is a sand 
desert. Nothing grows on it except a few trees called 
tamarugales, and some low bushes. It never rains, but 
a thick sea fog comes up from the coast, called the ca- 
manchaca. When it is very heavy, it looks like clouds 
driving along the ground ; everything gets quite wet. 
The only water to be had is brackish, and is used for 
driving the machinery, and for washing and watering the 
animals. The drinking-water has to be condensed. 

There are about two hundred mules in the corral, be- 
sides horses, sheep, and lambs. It is my little sister 
Queenie'sandmy delight to go and see them with father. 
They are fed on pasto, which comes from the South or 
from some little valleys in the Cordilleras ten thousand 
feet high. They bring flowers down too. 

I have a dear little horse of my own. It has three names 
— " Prince Charming," " Nubbles," and " Bunnyboy," be- 
cause it is always moving its nose. Sometimes Queenie 
rides a mare now. She likes a mule because it goes much 
quicker, and she likes trotting. I have no end of pets. 
"Chueco" I like best; he is a funny little dog, a dachshund. 
He sits up and begs and pretends to be dead when we 
say " Muerto." I have also a big green, red, blue, and 
yellow loro or parrot ; he calls us all by name, laughs, 
sings, and whistles, and has learned to cough since we 
had the whooping-cough ; and two ringdoves, two cana- 
ries, and two fat, fluffy white rabbits. 

In February we went to an oasis in the desert called 
Pica. It is a small village, and nearly every one has a 
vineyard and fruit-trees ; the fruit is sold in the oficinas 
and in Iquique. There are also springs of water, some 
of which are quite hot ; the visitors and natives bathe in 

I am ten years old. Every one says I am very tall 
and fat for my age. I do not think many of your little 
friends weigh ninety-seven pounds at that age. Mother 
is going to take me home to school. I am longing to see 



my brothers, who are studying in Edinburgh. Herr- 
mann, the eldest, has just left college ; he is first this 
year, and has won a prize. I hope you will print my 
letter. I remain ever your loving friend, 

Nelita W . 

Timber Ridge, Va. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have wanted to write to you 
ever since I read Mr. Roosevelt's " Remember the 
Alamo," because I live on the very spot where General 
Sam Houston was born. My grandfather lived for years 
in the old Houston house, and then built this brick 
house on the site of the old cottage, using the banisters 
from the old Houston staircase in the back porch, where 
they are still to be seen. One door has several bullet- 
holes in it. 

In the yard is an old, old tree with the marks and 
holes still in it where his father had his cider-press. Peo- 
ple from Texas come here almost every summer " to see 
where Sam Houston was born and lived " until he was a 
big boy and went to Tennessee. 

His grandson was here this summer, and can whistle 
Mexican tunes, and whistle two parts at one time, which 
is very wonderful. 

My uncle John Barr has sent St. Nicholas since be- 
fore I was born — ever since St. Nicholas was born. 
My oldest brother got it when he was little, and it still 
comes. I would not know what to do for something 
nice to read and look at if I had not dear old friend 
St. Nicholas. 

I am twelve years old. I like to read Mr. Roosevelt's 
tales because he is so American, — and so am I. 

Your true friend, Syd T . 

Frankfort, Ixd. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I thought I would tell you 
about our kitten. When he was very small Grandma 
Young gave him to me, and mama had to feed him with 
a spoon for three weeks. He was so hungry for the milk 
that mama could hardly hold him. He looked so ugly 
with the milk all over him that we thought he would never 
be a pretty kitten. He had no mother to teach him to 
wash his face. He was a great big cat before he learned. 
Mama thought she would teach him to lap milk like 
other kittens, but he would put his paws in the milk and 
suck them. Now he is a handsome big cat, and does a 
great many cute things. We hold a hoop in one hand 
and scratch on the floor with the other, and he will run 
and jump through it. We have a fur rug with a leopard 
on it in the parlor, and when we don't know where he 
is we go in there, and are sure to find him lying on the 
rug. I believe he thinks it is his mother. He kisses it 
and rubs his head against it as if he loved it. One night 
mama heard a great noise in the kitchen ; when she went 
out she found him with a little gray mouse, the first one 
he ever caught. He played with it for about two hours, 
and then he ate it. He watches every night at the same 
place where he caught that one. My little sister Mar- 
jorie dresses him up in her doll clothes. His name is 
" Timmie," and we love him dearly. 

Lovingly, your little friends, 

Lawrence and Marjorie S . 

my brother caught a lot of fish. In two mornings he 
caught fifteen. There are beautiful rocks at Ramsey, 
and beautiful glens on the Isle of Man. My father took 
us to Dhoon Glen, which was very beautiful. When we 
were at the bottom it took us three quarters of an hour 
to climb up. We saw the great Laxey water-wheel. We 
went in a steamer round the island, and saw Peel Castle, 
Port St. Mary, Port Erin, and Douglas, and we hope 
some day to go to the same place again. We enjoyed it 
so much. We have a beautiful cathedral at Lincoln, many 
hundreds of years old, and an old Roman arch which 
was built before the time of Christ. There is a nice stream 
of water called the Foss Dyke, which joins the river 
Witham to the river Trent, on which we often have a 
pleasant row. I remain your loving reader, 

William Carey H . 

Mariposa, Cal. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am nine years old. I have 
a little dog ; she is spotted. She helps me herd the tur- 
keys. We have one hundred. We live in the moun- 
tains ; it is very brushy and rocky. 

My aunt has sent you to me two years. I like you 
very much. Your loving reader, 

Chesley B. C . 

Poona, India. 

My dear St. Nicholas : This is the second lime I 
have written to you since I began to read you, nearly 
three years ago. 

I am very fond of you, and I would miss you very 
much if I had to go without you. The stories I am 
most interested in are "Jack Ballister's Fortunes," 
" Teddy and Carrots : Two Merchants of Newspaper 
Row," and *' A Boy of the First Empire." 

There is a Hindu temple about three miles from here, 
called Parbutti. It is on a hill, and to get to it nearly a 
hundred steps have to be climbed. The Hindu god 
Gunput is worshiped in this temple. 

Near it is a small room from which a rajah, or king, 
watched the battle of Kirkee; and when he saw that the 
English had won, and his side had lost, he fled. 

Poona is a large military station and a very pretty 
place. It was the last capital of the Peshwas, as the 
former rulers of Poona used to be called. It is sur- 
rounded by beautiful hills, although they are not very 

I like India, but I prefer America to it. I have been 
here nearly three years since we returned from America, 
and I lived here three years before we went home. I 
am ten years old now. I remain, your fond reader, 

Flora L. R . 

Santa Cruz, Cal. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I 've just been reading over the 
letters in the " Letter-box." 

I 'm very fond of St. Nicholas, and don't know 
what I 'd do without it. Mama gets books out of the 
library, and some are taken from St. Nicholas. I 've 
written a pretty long letter, but I want to say something 
more before I stop. I 'm eleven years old to-day. Your 
faithful reader, Annie Bell B . 

Hope House, South Park, Lincoln, England. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little boy eight years 
old. I take St. Nicholas. I often read the letters the 
little boys and girls write you, and I thought I should 
like to write you one myself. 1 had a little steamboat, 
and one day while my brother was getting up steam the 
boiler burst. I have been to Ramsey, Isle of Man, and 

We thank the young friends whose names follow for 
pleasant letters received from them : Philip H. Girard, 
Frances C. R., Katharine Kellogg, Estofanita More, 
Olie M. Rice, Julia Marshall, H. W. and C. W., Kafhe- 
rine Johnston, E. T. Brooks, Annie L. B., Henry S. 
Wilson, Edgar B. Peck, Alaine Malcolm, Madeline C. 
Raby, Francis Medary. 



Double Final Acrostic. Finals, S ; third row, concerts. Cross- 
words : x. Arcs. 2. Eros. 3. Dons. 4. Lacs. 5. Fees. 6. Mars. 
7. Tots. 8. Mess. 

Primal Acrostic. Henry Clay. Cross-words : 1. Helmet. 2. 
Elephant. 3. Nut. 4. Rabbit. 5. Yacht. 6. Crab. 7. Last. 8. 
Anvil. 9. Yak. 

Rhymed Numerical Enigma. Madam. 

Labyrinth of Proverbs. 

An Oblique Rectangle, i. V. 2. Nap. 3. Vault. 4. Plaid. 
5. Tired. 6. Demon. 7. Doted. 8. Negro. 9. Drain. 10. Oiled. 
11. Net. 12. D. 

L— 1— N— G— S 

R— E- 

S A— T O H 


N O— E— N A 
I 1 

O— M— O— S— S 

-A— L— O 


-E— T A 

i I 

e— t r 

1 I 

B— S— I 

R— D— S— O— F 


1 L 

I I 

B O H~ E F 


E C T— A— E 

■F— R 


H~ E 

A E 

Charade. Sau-sage. 

Subtractions, i. Re 
5. Cur-v-e. 6. Le-v-er. 

Word-square, i. Crow. 

-v-el. 2. No-v-el. 3. Me-d-al. 4. Co-l-on. 
7. Li-lac. 8. Li-v-e. 9. Pla-c-id. 10. 




Hidden Boys. i. Percival. 2. David. 3. Owen. 4. Henry. 5. 
Otis. 6. Amos. 7. Patrick. 8. Otto. 9. Lionel. 10. Oliver. 11. 
Anthony. 12. Ralph. 13. Moses. 14. Felix. 15. Horace. 16. 
Clement. 17. Cyril. 18. Francis. 

-N— N— O— N K— T— O— O— E 


Hidden Girls, i 
5. Dorcas. 6. Cora. 

20. Maud. 

Frances. 2. Elinor. 3. Victoria. 4. Mary. 

7. Madeline. 8. Barbara. 9. Melissa. 10. 

Ethel. 12. Jane. 13. Catherine. 14. Adeline. 15. 

16. Sophia. 17. Sarah. 18. Blanche. 19. Melinda. 

Illustrated Diagonal. Boone. Cross-words: 
MOuse. 3. MoOse. 4. CraNe. 5. EaglE. 

To OUR Puzzlers : Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and should 
be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle Box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the November Number were received, before November 15th, from "Jersey Quartette " — 
L. O. E. — Walter L. Haight — " One of Five Cousins" — " Two Little Brothers" — Josephine Sherwood — Jo and I — Sigourney Fay 
Nininger — " Two Romans." 

Answers to Puzzles in the November Number were received, before November 15th, from Paul Reese, 10 — " Brynhild," 4 — 
Hal Dunbar, 1 — F. Farley and F. Coleman, 2 — E. Baldwin Goetter, 1 — Paul Davidson, 1 — Daniel Hardin, Jr., 1 — G. B. Dyer, 8 — 
No name, St. Louis, 1 — Paul Haskell, 1 — Alice C. G. , 1 — " Four Weeks of Kane," 8 — Mama and Margie Roche, 5 — Lucia Connor, 1 

— Helen Taylor, 2 — Mary Rake, 1 — Herbert E. Coe, 1 — Hazel Van Wagenen, 1 — Walter P. Anderton and Aunt, 2 — " Sand-crabs," 10 — 

— Effie K. Talboys, 9 — " Embla," 8 — Emmita E. Gattus, 1 — Amy G. Olyphant, 1 — Helen G. Elliott, 7 — " Willmat and Co.," 8 — 
Marguerite Sturdy, 10 — " The Kittiwake," 10 — Betty, 5 — Georgia E. Bugbee, 9 — " Edgewater Two," 10 — " Will O. Tree," 5 — Paul 
Rowley, 9 — Marjory Gane, 6 — " Brownie Band," 9 — "Chiddingstone," 9 — Frederica Yeager, 9 — Charles Travis, 8 — W. Y. W., 9 — 
W. and E. G. L., 10 — No name, Hackensack, 9 — Helen Rogers, 8 — "Zeta Psi," 3 — " Marley and Scrooge," 7 — Florentine, 4 — 
" Haifa Dozen." 3 — "Three Brownies," 10 — Franklyn Farnsworth, 9 — Jessie Buchanan, 3 — " Merry and Co.," 10 — Laura M. Zin- 
ser, 6 — Jean Egleston, 8 — " Grateful Grinners," 10 — E. C. C. E. , 8 — Evangeline Parsons, 1. 


other, in the order numbered, the diagonal (from the 
upper left-hand letter to the lower right-hand letter) will 
spell the name of a popular American writer of poems. 

EDNA c. s. 


Across: i. Cavities. 2. A large bird. 3. Plunged. 
4. A masculine name. 5. A Shakespearean character. 

Downward: i. In rhomboid. 2. A conjunction. 
3. A young boy. 4. Wicked. 5. To separate. 6. A 
Roman emperor. 7. A Portuguese title. 8. A pro- 
noun. 9. In rhomboid. G. B. FERNALD. 


I. A name of the letter Z. 2. An African quadruped. 
3. Flowed out. 4. To fear in a great degree. 5. To 


All the words pictured contain the same number of 
letters. When rightly guessed and placed one below the 

The letters represented by stars spell the surname of 
a famous poet. 

Cross-words : 1. A kind of crossbow formerly used 
for shooting stones. 2. Twelve o'clock. 3. Substance. 
4. Military stores of all kinds. 5. Pertaining to rural 
life and scenes. 6. A king's daughter. 7. A trader. 
8. To ponder over. mary d. kittredge. 




Each of the eleven small pictures maybe described by 
one word. The eleven words are all of the same length. 
When these are rightly guessed, and placed one below 
another, the zigzag (beginning at the upper left-hand 
letter) will spell the name of a very famous English 


My first is in love, but not in hate; 
My second, in soon, but not in late ; 
My third is in lunch, but not in f£te ; 
My fourth is in dish, but not in plate; 
My fifth is in Katharine, but not in Kate ; 
My sixth is in postern, but not in gate ; 
My seventh is in value, but not in rate ; 
My eighth is in eat, and also in ate; 
My ninth is in orange, but not in date; 

My whole is a poem, of a lot 

Written by Sir Walter Scott. 



All of the words described contain the same number 
of letters. When rightly guessed and placed one below 
another, the central letters will spell the name of a small 
American quadruped. 

Cross-words: i. A small fresh-water fish. 2. To 
lose heart. 3. A small pleasure-boat. 4. A runner. 
5. A domestic fowl. 6. Misfortune. 7. A very small, 
light boat. HERBERT J. SIDDONS. 


I. Upper left-hand 
harsh sound by rubbing 

Square : 1. To produce a 
2. A masculine name. 3. 
Once more. 4. A thin plate of metal. 5. Sea eagles. 
II. Upper Right-hand Square: i. A hard exte- 
rior surface. 2. A governor. 3. Extreme. 4. To 
crowd. 5. Salvers. 

III. Central Square: i. Aroma. 2. A light boat. 

3. To enrich. 4. A running knot. 5. A pipe or funnel. 

IV. Lower Left-hand Square : 1. A pupil in a 
military school. 2. A genus of tropical plants. 3. Gift. 

4. The great epic poem of Virgil. 5. Dilatory. 

V. Lower Right-hand Square: i. Wants. 2. 
The fruit of the oak. 3. A small country of Asia. 4. 
The carcass of a whale after the blubber has been re- 
moved. 5. Protuberances, "jersey quartette." 


5 6 

3 ..... 4 

From I to 2, a collection of books ; from 1 to 3, orna- 
mental folds in a headdress ; from 2 to 4, more juvenile ; 
from 3 to 4, a pattern ; from 5 to 6, nations ; from 5 to 7, 
exhibited in a showy manner ; from 6 to 8, specimens ; 
from 7 to 8, injures ; from I to 5, a light-producing ap- 
paratus ; from 2 to 6, vegetables which grow in warm 
climates ; from 4 to 8, small quadrupeds ; from 3 to 7, a 
winter plaything. " merrie Christmas." 


Each blank is to be filled by a word of six letters. 
No two words are alike, though the same six letters, 
properly arranged, may be used to make the six missing 

A studio here greets the view, 

With here and there a brush or two; 

An easel of the ****** kind, 

For use conveniently designed ; 

A quaint old rug, an antique chair, 

Confusion, pictures everywhere. 

Queer old ****** and flagons, too, 

And drapery of ***** * blue. 

A girl, in gown of olden days 

(Not such as meets our modern gaze, 

With ruffles ****** and airy bows), 

Dainty and fair, no furbelows ; 

She holds a rose with ****** fair, 

Filling the room with perfume rare. 

A studio, an artist, too, 

Some skilful touches, just a few. 

A****** on the easel lies, 

The work is done — the artist sighs. 

E. K. H. 




(SEE PAGE 436.) 


Vol. XXIII. 

MARCH, 1896. 

Copyright, 1806, by The Century Co. All rights reserved. 

No. 5. 

boy that was spare, and a girl that was fair, 
Were riding from school in town ; 
. r ith a pony and cart, through the heart of the mart, 
Drove Edgar and Elinor Brown. 

The brow of the lad was exceedingly glad, 

With never a sign of a frown ; 
While with grace in her place, and a smile on her face, 

Rode sweet little Elinor Brown. 

But alas for the day and alas for the way 

(O Edgar, O Elinor Brown!), 
If a harness were sound, would it drop to the ground 

On the smooth, even streets of a town ? 

35 6 






In a ponyless cart, in the heart of the mart, Then laughter broke loud from the men in 

Sat Edgar and Elinor Brown, the crowd, 

While the frolicsome bay, with a gav little For folk love a joke in the town; 

neigh, But gayest of all in the street or the stall 

Went galloping out of the town. Were Edgar and Elinor Brown. 


Their carriage was light, they 'd no fright of 'T was a sight for a dream, this brisk little 

the night, team: 

Brave Edgar and Elinor Brown ! Bold Edgar swung strides through the town, 

So they plodded the way of the frolicsome While with grace in her place, and a hot happy 

bay, face, 

To their home in the outskirts of town. Ran sweet little Elinor Brown. 

Mary Elizabeth Stone. 


By J. T. Trowbridge. 

[Begttti in the November number. ] 

Chapter XIX. 


Tracy Lisle entered upon his new duties 
with a satisfaction to which a feeling of triumph 
over Gideon gave a peculiar zest. He laughed 
as he handled the hose with which Midget had 
been sprinkled and he himself had been threat- 
ened, saying to himself: 

" He told me never to set foot on these 
grounds as long as he was in charge ; and I 
said, ' You won't always be in charge.' " 

He wondered a little that the prophecy had 
so unexpectedly come true. Meanwhile it was 
a pure delight to see Midget playing about the 
place, free and happy, and enjoying, in his 
own silent way, the new order of things. The 
child, who had always been accustomed to run 
in and out of the house at pleasure when the 
Melvertons were at home, would have taken 
similar liberties in their absence if Tracy had 
not vigorously kept him out. 

So, before going in himself that afternoon to 
•close the windows and pull down the shades, 
he sent the little deaf-mute home, promising to 
follow soon. He had carefully put everything 
in order, and was about lowering the shade of 
a back chamber window, when he saw some- 
thing like a human figure moving behind the 
vines of the trellis framed against the side of 
the barn. 

" Why, is that Midget ? " he said to himself. 
" Has n't he gone home yet ? " 

But it was n't Midget ; a much larger form 
appeared at an opening of the vines, a head 
nodded, and a hand made signs to Tracy. 

" It 's George Oliver ! " he said. " What 
can he want of me ? " 

The two boys were about the same age, and 
were on good terms enough, but not so inti- 

mate as they had once been, the Oliver boy 
consorting too much with the idle and reckless 
sort to be, in Mrs. Lisle's opinion, a fit com- 
panion for her precious son; in the opinion 
also, we may add, of the precious son himself. 

" He never would have come here for me," 
Tracy reflected. " He must think Gid Kette- 
rell is still in charge ; he is after Gid," — his 
conclusion being that George Oliver had seen, 
but had not recognized, him through the win- 
dow. " I '11 ask what he wants, and maybe 
find out something else " ; for he had been all 
the afternoon in a study as to which of the as- 
sociates of Gid and Osk he should approach, 
in order to follow up the clue to the robbery 
of the prize cup, given him by Mr. Walworth. 

He was undoubtedly right as to George 
Oliver's object in visiting the place. George 
appeared very much surprised to see Tracy 
coming out of the back door presently, locking 
it, and walking straight to the trellis. 

"Hello, Dord ! " said Tracy, smiling diplo- 

Young Oliver had at first thought of taking 
himself unceremoniously out of the way; but 
though he might easily have avoided an inter- 
view, there was not time for him to escape 
recognition. So he concluded to remain and 
face Master Lisle with as confident an air as 
he could assume upon short notice. 

" Hello, Tracy ! " he replied, smiling in his 
turn, but somewhat glassily. " I did n't know 
it was you." 

" Well, it happens to be," said Tracy, with 
engaging suavity. " Sorry I 'm not the one 
you wanted." 

" That 's of no consequence." Dord replied. 
" I thought Gid Ketterell — " 

" Gid went off some little time ago. Can't 
you make use of me in his place ? " said Tracy. 
" You know you and I used to be pretty good 
friends, Dord." 




« Yes ; I always did like you, Tracy," Dord " What has, then ? Come, Dord ! " said 
answered honestly, pleased at the turn the talk Tracy. " Speak right out ! I '11 promise you 
was taking. " We don't see much of each that 1 sha'n't be offended. " 
other lately though." Leaning an elbow in a diamond of the trellis, 

" No," said Tracy ; " and I wonder whose 
fault it is." 

Poor as the Lisles were, since the minister's 
death, they stood high in the respect 
of the village people, and likewise in 
their own esteem. Tracy, as he grew 
up, saw more and more the 
propriety — insisted on by his 
mother — of keeping a certain 
class of boys at a distance. This 
independence on his part they 
resented by calling him " stuck- 
up " and " big-feeling." They 
might have conceded his right 
to keep apart from them if the 
Lisles had been wealthy, like the 
Melvertons ; but as it was, his 
assumption of superiority was 
deemed offensive. 

" I don't see how it can be 
my fault," said Dord. Then, 
in a burst of candor, " Fact is, 
Tracy, I have n't thought I was 
quite 'ristocratic enough for you." 

At the same time he turned 
very red, and looked as if he 
feared he had wounded Tracy's 
sensibilities. Tracy colored, too, 
but maintained his smiling coun- 
tenance. All this time they stood 
within the vine-covered trellis, 
with the afternoon sunshine flick- 
ering upon them through the 

" I 'm glad you spoke so frank- 
ly, George," Tracy replied, with- 
out betraying the least resent- 
ment. " For now perhaps we 
can come to a better understand- 
ing. I am aristocratic, in one 
sense. But you know it is n't 
because I have money, or dress particularly 
well, or — " 

" I know that," Dord hastened to admit, 
with an air of apology. " Money and good 
clothes have n't much to do with it." 


and resting 
on one foot, with 
the other thrown up care- 
lessly on the toe behind it, he 
speak regarded Dord ingratiatingly, 
Dord stood before him, with his 
hands in his pockets, his eyes cast down, and 
his russet cheeks drawn with a grin of comical 

" You don't dare tell me ! " Tracy urged coax- 
ingly. " Come, Dord, why not tell me frankly ? " 




After a pause Dord lifted his eyes and, look- 
ing straight into Tracy's with a frank expres- 
sion, replied : 

" You 're a better fellow than the rest of us ; 
that 's just where it is, Tracy. You 're a better 
fellow than the rest of us." 

Tracy was touched; a happy expression glis- 
tened in his brave blue eyes as he answered : 

" Oh, now, see here, Dord, what do you mean 
by that ? I 'm no such good fellow as you 

genuine, downright, disinterested kindness. Do 
you believe it ? " 

It was Dord's turn to feel happy and grate- 
ful now. He winked quickly as he leaned back 
against the trellis, with his head turned half 
away, and said in a low voice : 

" I do mean right ! But I don't know how- 
it is — you 're brighter 'n the rest of us ; that 's 
the difference." 

" Heigho ! " said Tracy, with something be- 


think. I 've got a high temper, I can be as 
selfish and jealous as anybody, and I 'm con- 
stantly saying and doing things I 'm ashamed 
of, or sorry for, afterward." 

" If you were pretty mean you would n't be 
ashamed of 'em," Dord suggested, with a shy 
look out of the corner of his eyes. 

' ; Something in that ! " said Tracy, with a gay 
little laugh. " But what I 'm coming to is this. 
It 's the good heart that makes one fellow 
really better than another ; and there is n't a 
better-hearted boy in town than you, Dord Oli- 
ver ! There is n't one I 'd sooner go to for a 

tween a laugh and a sigh, as he took a step 
toward him, across the overarched space. 
" ' Brighter ' ? You know yourself, Dord Oliver, 
that in school you were as bright at your lessons 
as I was, — when you tried. If you had kept on 
and entered the high school, instead of dropping 
out as you did, you might be as far along as I 
am. So might several of the boys, who got 
tired of study, and imagined they had educa- 
tion enough. Is n't that so ? " 

" Maybe 't is," Dord assented, with a sorry 

" No ! " cried Tracy. " It is n't that, either, 

i8 9 6.] 



that makes me aristocratic — if I am aristo- 
cratic — and I hope I am, in the right way. 
Shall I tell you what it is ? " 

" I 'd like to know," Dord replied earnestly, 
as Tracy paused. 

" It is because I try to make the best of my- 
self. That 's why I keep away from boys that 
hold themselves too cheap. I can't afford to 
idle away my time as they do, caring only for 
the fun of the moment. Something won't let 
me. I must improve my mind — get know- 
ledge — prepare myself for whatever may be be- 
fore me in life. When I read about great and 
noble men, I can't help comparing myself with 
them, and trying to be like them. Our youth 
is too precious to be trifled away. I believe in 
enjoying it as we go along, but in a different 
way from those that find it so dull without 
coarse excitements. If that is what makes me 
aristocratic," Tracy went on, " why, then I 'm 
glad I am aristocratic." 

Dord stared at him with astonishment akin 
to awe. 

" I don't wonder you keep away from us," he 

" Don't you ever have such feelings ? " Tracy 

"Yes — I suppose every fellow has — odd 
spells. I only wish I could live up to 'em, as 
you do! " Dord declared, sincerely. " But it 's 
so much easier to go off and have a good 
time ! " 

" Yes," said Tracy ; " and the right kind of 
a good time is something I believe in, too. I 
enjoy it as much as anybody. But you fellows 
want to make life all a good time. You 've got 
to go to work before long, and you ought to be 
interested in that work. Then suppose you 
give a part of your leisure to serious reading 
and thinking — say, an hour or two a day ; have 
you any idea what a difference it would make 
in the course of a year ? three years ? ten 
years ? I think, Dord, if you should try that, 
you would begin to feel ' aristocratic ' yourself; 
you would be a little more choice of your spare 
time and of the company you keep." 

" That 's so ! " said the conscience-smitten 
Dord. " I guess that 's so." 

Then there was a long pause, Tracy wonder- 
ing how he should approach the subject that 
Vol. XXIII.— 46. 

was uppermost in his mind when he had come 
to meet Dord. 

Chapter XX. 


"You were coming here to find Gid Ket- 
terell," Tracy at last said. 

" Yes ; I thought it was about time for him 
to be going along home, and I 'd go with him," 
Dord replied. 

" You 've been here for him before ? " 

" No, never once." 

" Do you know of anybody who has ? " 
Tracy inquired. 

" I don't know as I ought to tell," said Dord; 
for he, like almost all the village boys, and 
some of their parents and teachers too, I regret 
to say, was in the habit of saying " don't know 
as" for " don't know that," and using other incor- 
rect expressions of which fastidious mothers 
like Mrs. Lisle disapproved. 

" If there 's any good honest reason why you 
should n't tell, don't," said Tracy, studying him 
with kind, searching eyes. " But I have a very 
good and a very honest reason for asking the 
question." He concluded he had better come 
frankly to the point. " You can help me about 
a very important matter, Dord, if you will." 

" I should like to do that," said Dord. 

" Then tell me who has been here to see 

" Osk Ordway has ; I don't know of" any 

" When was that ? " Tracy asked, with quick- 
ening heart-beats. 

" I don't know ; just two or three days ago." 

" What did he want ? " 

" Nothing part